


Fallen

by andsotheresparis



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aphasia, Cuddles, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, M/M, Multi, Recovery, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 162,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsotheresparis/pseuds/andsotheresparis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras falls during a protest and nothing will be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 12

**Author's Note:**

> This is just some idea I played with after my brother suffered a skull fracture. One of the possible long term symptoms is aphasia (a problem with speech and compression language) With Enjolras being so articulate and powerful with his words, it would be a struggle for everyone should he lose it.
> 
> Also, Enjolras and Combeferre's friendship is on my favorite things. Fair warning. 
> 
> It's unbeta'd so please let me know if there are any errors or issues!

         Bahorel found him in between bathroom stalls lying and crying in his own piss and vomit and Bahorel’s a good friend because when Grantaire begged and pleaded and cried, his hand clawing at the big mans shirt, he brought him to the hospital. He stayed there with Grantaire, all blubbering tears and vomiting mess for the entire night and most of the morning, only going home to shower once a few other friends showed up. It was understood that Grantaire needed to be watched.  
     
     It's been three days and he’s still hungover. And he's still at the hospital, although he has changed and showered, much to do with the power of Éponine. That and Courfeyrac said Grantaire wouldn't be allowed in the room smelling as he did. He hasn't slept but really, no one has. He hasn't eaten but really, no one has. Not even Bossuet who's a notorious emotional eater. When his gerbil died he gained eleven pounds. The few hours of sleep they've gotten has been in the firm plastic waiting room chairs and the few calories have been from the vending machine in the children's ward because it's not as expensive as the one in the ICU and it has a broader candy selection.  
     
     A nurse walks by, smiling warmly at them. She knows them. They all know them by now. It's Thursday, but everyone is skipping school and taking off work to be here just as they have all week and just as they will all next week, even though Combeferre and Courfeyrac will tell them it's best to go home and they'll call if anything changes.  
     
     She clears her throat and the kids all look up. Grantaires’ thumb stops flicking through the photos on his camera to watch every word that leaves her mouth but they don’t apply to him and soon Éponine is following the nurse down the hall to see Combeferre and Grantaire goes back to looking through the same photos he's been looking through for the last six days. Musichetta looks over his shoulder until it gets to the last ten frames. She cringes and looks away, leaning heavily into Bossuet.  
     
     Grantaire hadn't liked the set up from the start. He said as much but Enjolras simply waved him off. The day of he tried to negotiate his way out if this particular job, his camera wasn't even that good and an extra body is always needed near the speaker, but again, Enjolras silenced him. The blonds’ tactics were quick and dirty; a strong hand and soft smile reassuring that everything was going to be fine. Not only was everything going to be fine but these photos were going to be great, Enjolras was sure of it. Grantaire was trusted with a job of heavy importance. Grantaire was _necessary_. Too damn bad for Grantaire that his necessary, trusted job forced him to the other side of the plaza.  
     
     Jehan had the same job, on the same side of the plaza only one building over but he didn't have the same photos because he had the sense to turn away. Grantaire didn't even gasp because his heart stopped cold. No one walks away from that. Enjolras didn't walk away from that.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    He hasn’t been home in six days. Meaning he hasn’t showered nor slept in a real bed in six days and the only food he’s eaten has been the food his friends forced down his throat the few minutes a day they’ve been allowed to visit. It’s Éponine’s turn to see him. Éponine is their last resort. Courfeyrac is the obvious choice but he’s been nearly as bad as Combeferre has. Thankfully Jehan had some magical convincing power and the poet was able to pull Courfeyrac home the night before. The same magic was far from successful on Combeferre and they've tried most everything.  
         
     Joly tried medical logic, “You can’t help if you're exhausted!”  
     
     To which Combeferre replied steadily, “I sleep here, Joly.”  
     
     Feuilly tried common sense, “They’ll call if anything changes.”  
     
     “The hospital is thirty minutes away. The chair is three seconds.”  
     
     Bahorel threatened. “I will throw you over my shoulder and drag you out.”  
     
     “Try it.” Combeferre challenged with a scary low tone and a protective hand in Enjolras’.  
     
     Nothing worked.  
     
     Today is her day on Jehan’s schedule. She hasn’t seen them for two days but Combeferre is wearing the same shirt he was wearing then and Enjolras looks the same sickly pale. As soon as she sees that, she knows packing the bag was the right decision. They told her to try and bring him home. Knowing that if it were Grantaire, she wouldn’t leave either. So she brought fresh shirts, jeans, sweats, a hoodie. Clean underwear. She brought everything she thought he might like. Books and school work. Head phones and a pillow. Everything and anything that may make him more comfortable because, unlike the others, Éponine knows Combeferre isn’t leaving the hospital without Enjolras by his side.  
     
     In the small Intensive Care Unit room, Combeferre is sitting in his flat wooden chair with the blue and white striped cushion. There’s a notebook resting awkwardly in his lap and his usually neat handwriting is slanted from where the book is leaning at an angle across his lap as he is unwilling to let go of his best friend’s hand to hold it steady. He’s chewing on the end of his pen and doesn’t flinch when the door opens but he jumps when she tosses the bag on the small couch-turned-Combeferre’s-bed against the wall.  
     
     “Hey there.” She says with her warmest smile. Despite the gravity of the situation, seeing his soft brown eyes and his somewhat floppy brown hair and his cute round glass makes her heart flutter just enough to force her to focus on speaking normally instead of that squeaking high pitched girl likes a boy voice that is usually accompanied with a burst of giggles.  
     
     “Your flat has an elevator, doesn’t it?” He asks after a brief greeting.  
     
     “Yep.” She sits on the edge of the bed and places a gentle hand on Enjolras’s leg. “No one uses it, though, seeing as it’s just waiting to be a five o’clock news story.” Combeferre nods, writing the new details in his notebook. Éponine waits patiently until his writing stills, studying his face till he finishes and looks back up. The last week has aged him ten years. She tucks her feet onto the bed so she’s sitting cross legged. “Why do you ask?”  
     
     “Our apartment isn’t wheelchair accessible.” Combeferre explains. He glances down at his notes, then back to her. “I would like for him to be able to stay home because it’s familiar but if it’s not plausible I want to be prepared to make arrangements somewhere else.”  
     
     He looks away from Éponine and to his best friend. Seeing something she does not, he places the notebook gently on the nightstand. He stands up to brush a stray curl off of Enjolras’s forehead, then smooths the white bandages on the other side of his head. There are no curls loose there. There are no curls there.  
     
     “They won’t know that’s going to be an issue until he wakes up, right?” Éponine asks once Combeferre is sitting back down. His hand never loses it’s hold on Enjolras’.  
     
     He nods, then shrugs. “He broke his neck. A fracture, but broken nonetheless. I just want to be prepared.”  
     
     They grow quiet and Éponine hates how much she loves the endearing way Combeferre looks at Enjolras. She hates it because Enjolras is closer to death than any twenty-four year old should be and she hates herself because she wants Combeferre to look at her like that.  
     
     “I heard the swelling is going down.” She says because she can’t be jealous of a brain damaged boy. “That’s good news, right?”  
     
     Combeferre’s smile is carefully restrained. “Now it’s just a matter of whether or not he wakes up.”  
     
     “He will.” She says. “It’s Enjolras, of course he will.”  
     
     Combeferre smiles the same pained, restrained smile and she doesn’t add the _he needs to_ _for the sake of all of us_ part.


	2. June 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre's dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few chapters written already so I'll keep posting as regularly as I can. Thank you so much for reading!

      Combeferre had pointed up, trying and shouting over the rioting crowd behind him. His best friend smiled, not watching anyone in particular but admiring the fire reflecting in the movement of the people. The fire that he put there.  
     
      “Enjolras!” The cry ripped through Combeferre’s throat. His fear raised a hot blush up the back of his neck. He called again and again until Enjolras finally looked down, worry evident in his face at his friend’s concern ridden shouts. He searched for Combeferre, who was on the other side of the statue, the opposite side he was supposed to be. The blond relaxed slightly, seeing that Combeferre was still there and still alright but the other man was still yelling out for him. “Hold on!”  
     
      “What?”  
     
      “Hold on!”  
     
      Enjolras cupped his hand over his ear indicating he couldn’t hear. He tore his gaze away from Combeferre to search for a way down off the ten foot statue only to hear Combeferre’s voice again, but still not his words. The other man was pointing behind him, fear glazing over his eyes. Enjolras turned around just in time to throw his hands in front of his face in a quick attempt to soften the blow of the police baton. He felt his heels slip off the stone at the same time his arm caught on fire. The sound of snapping bone was louder than the riot below him.  
     
      The fall didn’t last long but he heard Combeferre’s heart wrenching screams the whole time. Enjolras wanted to tell him it’s okay, to squeeze his hand, flash him a smile, because there was nothing worse than that sound but the ground came too fast.  
     
      His temple connected with the edge of a step, skin splitting and skull shattering. There wasn’t a lot of blood. Not at first. Most of it was seeping from his ears and nose. Combeferre ignored the hot tears running down his face and how his throat felt as if he had swallowed a razor from screaming. The worse thing, the part that sent chills down his spine and to his toes, forcing them to cringe and curl in on themselves, the part that gave him this crippling false hope that maybe, just maybe it wasn’t all so much more horrible than their normal consequences of starting a riot, jail and pepper spray, a broken bone or sprained ankle, that maybe, just maybe it was going to be alright was that he was still moving.  
     
      He fell face down, his neck tilted roughly to one side and Combeferre sees it when he closes his eyes. The fingers on his one hand clawed weakly at the stone. The other was bent awkwardly under itself. Broken from both the fall and the cop. Combeferre ran, skidding down the stairs, ripping his jeans as he fell to kneel at his best friend’s side. He wrapped his hands gently around his neck, delicately keeping Enjolras from moving. The blond immediately responded, his clawing growing more fierce and desperate but it did nothing against Combeferre’s hold. There was no need to even tighten his grip.  
     
      Combeferre tried to lean in, to talk, to explain, to comfort, but there were too many people around. Heavy feet were blind to the two boys. Bustling, panicking bodies were too focused on the approaching cops to see them. Several times Combeferre had to let go with one hand and push stragglers away. He screamed constantly but no one heard him.  
     
      Too many students were starting to creep in too fast. Tears were falling heavier, fat drops landing on Enjolras’s shoulder. He was scared before but panic was just one more body away before taking complete control.  
     
      That body was a boy, no older than Combeferre or Enjolras. He fell from above them on the stairs falling into Combeferre, landing with his chest flat against Combeferre’s back. Everything lurched forward, everything except his hold keeping Enjolras’s neck still. His fingers neither loosened nor tightened. They didn’t so much as flinch. Combeferre wished the cops would show up. Where the hell was the one that hit Enjolras in the first place?  
     
      “Get the fuck off!” cried Combeferre. His glasses fell during the impact and the knowledge that he was even more useless than before burned through his skin.  
     
      The weight disappeared off his back with only a hefty grunt but with it none of the fear. There were hands suddenly around his face and boot clad feet filled his vision. His vision that swam back into focus. After replacing his glasses, the hands moved to rest on his shoulder for a quick, reassuring squeeze before they followed the rest of the massive Bahorel to fend off more restless rioters. Bossuet soon joined Bahorel and they efficiently kept a wide berth around the two boys while they could. Combeferre didn’t relax but he did lean in to speak to Enjolras. To explain. To comfort.  
     
      His eyes were closed but they snapped open at Combeferre’s demand, well plead. All his other movements stopped. His fingers stilled, his breathing hitched, his slowly shifting foot froze. His eyes didn’t find Combeferre. They didn’t focus on anything. Still, Combeferre spoke.  
     
      “I’m right here, Enjolras.” He said. “I’m right here and everything’s going to be okay.”  
     
      He said it over and over and over again until Bossuet fell backwards across Enjolras’s legs. The police were wrangling the crowd in, leaving them directly in their path. Combeferre confirmed that Bossuet was alright. The boy was quick to apologize and even quicker to jump up and rejoin Bahorel. When Combeferre looked back at Enjolras, his eyes were closed. His fingers were still.  
     
      The police cleared away most of the crowd between the boys and help. Bahorel and Bossuet were arrested, despite their hands being raised in surrender. They knew the heavy threat of Combeferre’s hands around a motionless Enjolras’ neck. The cops didn’t force Combeferre away, though, and for that they were grateful. On their stomachs, hands zip-tied behind them, they watched.  
     
      “I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor!” He lied, unwilling to lose his position near Enjolras. A cop hesitated around the two, looking nervously from Enjolras, still and bleeding under Combeferre’s hands, to his fellow officers still trying to settle the crowd.  
     
      “Please!” Combeferre cried. “Please, he needs a hospital!”  
     
      The cop was young and anxious. He bit his lip, considered running to the other side of the plaza. Maybe he can watch over the detainees. That was a job he knew how to do. Blood and kids and death aren't things he knows how to handle.  
     
      “He needs your help.” Combeferre said a little softer, aiming for empathy. He set his jaw, softened his eyes, and silently begged, shifting his fingers ever so slightly searching for a pulse.  
     
      Combeferre wakes up and searches for Enjolras’ pulse. The machine is still beeping it’s steady rhythm but Combeferre needs to feel physical proof that his best friend is still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat and hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	3. June 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine gets extra hours and learns about statistics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the great comments! I should able to post regularly and I look forward to your opinions!

      It was supposed to be another three days before her turn on the schedule but someone must have seen something in Combeferre because everyone gave up a couple minutes of their own visit so she could see him earlier. Jehan implied it was Courfeyrac’s doing and Musichetta inferred Joly said Combeferre seemed more relax after her last visit. Whichever reason, whichever friend, she doesn’t care because it means she gets to see both of them more.  
     
      Not even the sad, envious eyes desperately shooting for anger can kill her excitement. Grantaire looks betrayed. He is overreacting, Éponine tells herself until she’s in front of the door and it’s too late to walk back because the nurse has already left and the hospital’s halls are too complicated and mundane to navigate herself. Combeferre would never take time away from Enjolras if Grantaire was the one in the bed and Éponine was the one in the striped blue and white chair.  
     
      The spark that jumps on to Combeferre’s face, the smile she’s starting to hope is just for her, isn’t enough to quiet the scream, _traitor_ , in Grantaires’ voice that echoes behind the steady beeping of Enjolras’s heart monitor. The hug, though, might just be.  
     
      “No change, huh?” She asks once they’ve parted and she’s now sitting on her spot on the bed. Her skin still itches pleasantly from where his skin touched hers.  
     
      “Nope. Not yet.” Enjolras would be proud of his optimism, Éponine thinks. “How is everyone else doing?”  
     
      Combeferre takes Enjolras’ hand back in his own but watches Éponine intently. Lately he doesn’t get many hours with friends who can respond to his questions. He’s going to milk an as intense of a conversation as he can get. Éponine seems happy to oblige. She gives him updates on all of their friends, from Bossuet’s latest battle with a particularly steep set of stairs and Joly’s complete panic attack that followed to Grantaire’s increased drinking and Jehan’s new habit of muttering poems under his breath as if praying. She tells him what a disaster their apartment is with only Courfeyrac sleeping there now and how both Musichetta and Marius have started to make it a habit of swinging by every few days. He frequently interrupts and asks questions which she gladly answers as well as she can and can’t help but smile at his animated side of the conversation.  
     
      Their chat runs well over the determined visitors hour and she hops of the bed before a nurse can come by and yell at her. All of the Amis are on their radar now after Jehan’s third successful sneak visit, Courfeyrac’s fight with the vending machine, and Bahorel’s accidental kidnapping. They’ve all learned the nurses here are sweet but viciously protective of their patients. It’s a good thing, really, even if they hate them for it.  
     
      “Before you go,” Combeferre says, standing up slowly as his knees are stiff from sitting for so long. “Can you stay with him? Just for a minute. I need to make a phone call. I don’t want him to be alone, you know, just in case he wakes up. He doesn’t like hospitals. Like really doesn’t like hospitals. I think it’s something to do with how he doesn’t know enough about medicine to trust the doctors. That and he hates needles. And being all fuzzy, which is why he doesn’t drink much.” He forces himself to take a deep breath. “Anyway, he doesn’t like them and I don’t want him to be scared in case he wakes up alone.”  
     
      He’s rambling and if it were for any other reason than not wanting to leave his best friend alone in the hospital due to a broken neck and fractured skull, potential brain damage and paralysis should he even wake up, well she would have found it pretty freaking adorable  
     
      “Of course. Take your time.” She makes sure her smile isn’t inappropriately bright.  
     
      “Thanks, Ép.” His back cracks when he takes a step towards the bed. He squeezes Enjolras’s shoulder, promising he won’t be long. Before leaving, he kisses the blonds’ forehead gently, aware of each bruised and broken bone.  
     
      She definitely didn’t watch Combeferre as he walked out. Not at all. That would be inappropriate no matter how fantastic those jeans fit him. Éponine shifts on the bed so she is facing Enjolras and whispers softly, “Don’t tell him.”  
     
      Her small breath of laughter fades as does her smile. Quieter, she says, “You can’t keep this up. It’s not fair to him. To us. We’re losing it without you. Combeferre hasn’t slept since the protest and Courfeyrac has forgotten what he normally does with his hands. Jehan cries all day. Feuilly keeps missing work.”  
     
      She tells the motionless blond. The only movement is from the thick tube inserted down his throat to help him breath. It’s not much, but the contracting of the tube matches the rise and fall of Enjolras’s chest and it’s a beautiful sign that he’s breathing, even if it’s with the assistance of a horrible plastic machine. The stiff neck brace is starting to look normal and the black bruise on his forehead is starting to fade but the scattered bruises over his cheek and around his eyes are only darker compared to the white bandages. It’s a stark contrast to the pale complexion. She hates how helpless he looks because Enjolras would hate it.  
     
      Éponine wipes a tear that escaped, then busies herself brushing back the same wild curl Combeferre always pushes back. “When you wake up, we’ll have to even out your hair. Jehan hates it but Grantaire thinks it’ll look nice cut short.” She laughs, telling the story as if she were just catching up a friend who has been out of town. “He told Jehan that it’ll show off that _roman-greco_ bone structure of yours. He’s such a dork.”  
     
      She sighs. Behind her, Combeferre returns but hangs back, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. A smile spreads across his tired face with each word from the girl.  
     
      “You two would be cute together.” She muses before demanding, “So don’t you forget him or anything, okay? That kind of stress isn’t fair to us. Don’t forget anyone. Or anything. Just wake up and be normal. I mean, don’t do it for me. Don’t do it for R either, but never tell him I said that. Do it for Combeferre because, jesus! I thought you were scary when a friend got hurt, but then this shit hit the fan and Combeferre gets all dedicated mama bear on the hospital. Who knew he was so terrifying?”  
     
      Combeferre chuckles and it surprises her, but a smirk plays on her face.  
     
      “You are, you know?” She raises her eyebrow as if that will persuade him.  
     
      “Rightfully so, I would say.” He defends himself lightly. Moving into the room, Combeferre smiles fondly down at Enjolras and although it’s laced with a gentle sadness, it’s beautiful. Éponine has to look away. “If I don’t look out for him, who would?”  
     
      “All of us.” She says as if that’s an obvious answer when the man sits heavily on his wooden chair with the blue and white striped cushion. “He’s going to be okay, Combeferre.”  
     
      He agrees, pulling the chair as close to Enjolras as he can before his knees hit the bed frame. “I hope so.”

  
      ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     Combeferre knows because it’s Combeferre and anything he doesn’t know he finds out but Éponine can’t bring herself to ask him. It doesn’t seem fair. Yet, it's imperative. She looked it up on the internet and asked her smart phone but she couldn’t find any answer that was detailed enough for her liking. Joly knows, so she goes searching for him.  
     
      The halls of the hospital are still a labyrinth of complicated corners, useless arrows on the floor, and suspicious nurses. It takes her a good two hours of wandering the floors before she finally finds a nurse she recognizes yet alone feels comfortable asking. The time doesn't bother Éponine. The longer she doesn't have to know, the longer she can stay overly optimistic.  
     
      The nurse is an older lady with two kids. One is married with a second grandchild on the way and Éponine is grateful she was patient enough to look at all of the family pictures the nurse so eagerly showed her because the woman is more than happy to ask around for Joly. It doesn’t take long for her to find him. He’s busy doing rounds a few floors down. Éponine quietly waits outside a room for her friend. When he spots Éponine waiting for him, panic etches into his features.  
     
      “Is everything alright?” He asks calmly, despite all the scenarios clearly running through his head.  
     
      “As far as I know, yes.” She answers, smiling as he visibly relaxes with an audible sigh. “I just have a question I was hoping you could help me with.”  
     
      “Sure. I can try.” He smiles gently. Éponine shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. The answers she wants aren’t actually things she wants to hear but there is that small itch that is keeping her up at night. It holds her breath back every time Combeferre smiles or Courfeyrac makes some kind of adjustment to their apartment. She searches through her sentences, trying to find the right way to phrase her concerns without further upsetting herself or Joly. Time passes and Joly waits with relative patience before reminding her he is working. The tone is lighthearted enough but with a hint of the edge showing his sense of dread. Éponine has the feeling he's been waiting for someone to ask this. “I’d love to answer any questions, Éponine, but I do have work that is time sensitive.”  
     
      Unfazed by the warning, only encouraged, she finally speaks up. She decides blunt tactics are the best course of action because it’s like a bandaid, she tells herself. There are things she needs to know in order to be helpful and she can’t be helpful until she asks these questions. “What happens now?”  
     
      “With what?”  
     
      “With Enjolras. He’s had surgeries, scans, and drugs. It’s been a week and the doctors are saying he's still unresponsive. What happens now?”     

      Joly takes a deep breath and looks up as he formulates his answer. When he speaks again, he is looking her in the eye and his voice is even. “The compound skull fracture will eventually heal, now that he has had the surgeries but there is no telling the damage. I heard the neck surgery went well but again, we won’t know how severe the recovery will be. His arm was almost completely shattered and he is scheduled for two more surgeries. Outside of that, it’s simply a matter of him waking up.”  
     
      “So when does he wake up?”  
     
      “That’s up to him.”  
     
      “That’s a stupid answer, just so you know.” She says quickly in her fear. “What if he doesn’t wake up?”  
     
      Again, Joly is quiet for a stretch of time that’s long enough to make Éponine feel bad about snapping at him. “Right now, eight days after the accident, there is still a chance he’ll wake up.”  
     
      “A chance.”  
     
      “Yes. A chance. We can’t predict one way or the other but most everything we could do medically has been done.”  
     
      “And if he doesn’t wake up?”  
     
      “If he doesn’t wake up after two weeks, his chances drop. Dramatically.”  
     
      “His chances of survival.” She clarifies.  
     
      Joly sighs. “Yes.”  
     
      “So if he doesn’t wake up this week, he’s most likely dead.”  
     
      “Statistically, it would suggest that but every case is different, Ép. We can’t write him off.” Joly is quick to reassure. “Enjolras is young, strong, and healthy. That gives him an advantage.”  
     
      Éponine bites her lip. “His chances aren’t high, are they?”  
     
      “Ép, he was-”     

      “Realistically speaking his injuries were severe enough that he may not live. Right?” Joly doesn’t answer her. His only response would be Enjolras still has a chance, therefore proving her point that they are being overly optimistic. “We shouldn’t be planning for what happens when he comes home, should we? We should be planning a funeral.”  
     
      The med student is silent. He studies her with narrow eyes, angry at her even thinking that yet alone suggestion it. It’s the truth, though, and for that he has no response. It’s the first time it’s been said out loud. A cold shiver runs down Joly’s spine. It was there, that knowledge. He knows it was but Éponine voicing it brings it to life. Éponine looks at her shoes, nodding as if to tell him it’s what she thought. She thanks him quietly before disappearing down the halls with every intention of taking two hours to get back to the ICU room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-comeatnight.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat and hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	4. June 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette finds Courfeyrac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Cosette is adorable and I have this kind of image of her that she subtly keeps the amis together (at least in this story, I guess) so if it seems ooc that's probably why... Hopefully not too much? Let me know if it doesn't work!

          The hem of her skirt floats around her knees under the scarves. The rainbow scarves tied around her waist flow magically down the hall as she walks with enough momentum and enough sway to make them dance. The ombre pink scarf around her head hangs under her curls and the several ribbons wrapped around legs makes her feel like a warrior princess in a ballet. Light from the florescent ceiling lights bounce off of her glitter soaked outfit. People turn and stare. Patients wave. Nurses giggle and shake their heads with that knowing smile they all have learned to give Cosette.  
     
      She turns a corner on her way to surprise her father for lunch. There is a boy standing in front of the vending machine. Cosette takes a side step, only to have the boy move back directly in her path. She stops. It’s clearly unintentional because his focus is still on the machine. He isn't dressed like a patient, jeans and a t-shirt, but she's made that mistake before. His hair is standing up in every direction, his skin is pale, and there are dark circles under his red rimmed eyes. She doesn't move past him right away and she's grateful because suddenly the boy drops. He sinks to the floor in slow, mechanical movements until he's sitting cross legged in the middle of the hospital hallway.  
     
      Cosette collects her skirts and scarves to bend down close to him. “Hi.”  
     
      He glances up for a second before looking back to the candy bar in his hand. The response is almost too quiet for her to hear. “Hi.”  
     
      “Would it be alright if I sat here?” The boy shrugs so Cosette makes sure all of her precious fabric is protected as she sits down next to him. She keeps her legs out straight to keep her warrior shoes exactly how they should be. Several nurses move around the two, then a wheel chair before Cosette suggests, “Perhaps we should scoot back to the wall?”  
     
      After a studious look at her intricate rainbow outfit, the boy nods and they shift simultaneously until they're resting against the wall. “I like your outfit.” The boy says softly after a few minutes of comfortable silence.  
     
      “Thank you.” She smiles. Her hands run across the soft fabric along her legs. “I just came from the children’s ward.”  
     
      The corners of his mouth twitch up but he doesn’t offer anything else for several long minutes. When he does talk again it almost startles her. “I'm sorry I'm not much company.”  
     
      “I think this is nice.” She says honestly. "Like I said, I just came from a whole bunch of kids."  
     
      “I just,” he pauses. Looking up and shaking his head to fight back tears, he laughs bitterly. “It's just that I got a fucking Kit Kat instead of pretzels.”  
     
      “That's disappointing. I wish I had some spare change so we could try again.” Cosette still isn't sure if he's a patient or a visitor but for her response, it doesn't matter.  
     
      “I have some back in the room but I'm hiding.”  
     
      “From what?”  
     
      “Homicide detectives.”  
     
      Cosette raises her eyebrows. “Oh? Well I can be your alibi for right now if you'd like. At least until we get you pretzels.”  
     
      The boy laughs, then finally looks at her again. There are tears still in his eyes but they are light and match his amused smile. “I haven't killed anyone yet but if I ever do, I'll call you.”  
     
      “Will you promise to call me before?”  
     
      “So you can be an accomplice or try and talk me out of it?”  
     
      “I think it depends. If someone deserved it,” she winked. “We could discuss the terms.”  
     
      It's a joke and she knows she laughed it off just right but the boys’ face falls back to his lap as he mutters, “I can think of a few.”  
     
      Time passes again. People walk by, always glancing curious looks at the sad Irish boy and the eccentrically dressed girl. Her father is one of those and he pauses, eyeing the situation but she smiles and gives him an a-okay sign. Despite his unease, the older man nods and continues on his way. Eventually, Cosette speaks up. Even though the hall is busy and bustling it feels like she is breaking some kind of silence. “Do you have family here?”  
     
      The boy nods. “Enjolras.”  
     
      “Is he your brother?” Cosette ventures a guess.  
     
      “Yeah,” He responds instantly before shaking his head. “Well, no not technically. He’s basically my brother though. I only have a sister so I don't know what a blood related brother would be like. I can only say I’d want it to be Enjolras. Do you have a brother?” 

      “Only child.”  
     
      “So is Enjolras but he’s never alone. Even now. Combeferre stays here all day and night and our friends are always here.”  
     
      “What happened?”  
     
      “He fell. He broke his head, his neck, and his arm.” The boy nods as he elaborates. He speaks mechanically and distantly, repeating what the doctor had told them and pointing to the places the doctor had showed them. Cosette tries to think through all the patients she knows admitted here but doesn’t know one with a broken neck. She knows there is nothing she can say so she reaches out to take his hand and listens. The boy lets her. “He fell. I think they said it was twelve feet. He landed on some stairs. I’m pretty sure he’s dying. That’s why I have to talk to the detectives. Because he might die.”  
     
      They fall back into a comfortable silence. Cosette looks over and sees the small, silent tears running down his cheeks. “My purse is in my dad’s office. Maybe we can get some change for pretzels?”  
     
      He sighs, “I don’t even like pretzels.”  
     
      “What do you like then?” She asks with the hope that there is some way to help.  
     
      “I like Sundays.” It sounds wistful. “Today’s Sunday, right? We usually have big Sunday brunches at our apartment. Our whole family. Enjolras isn’t allowed to cook.” He smiles, then turns to face Cosette. His face breaks out into a giddy grin as he talks. “He’s a terrible cook. In our last apartment, he set three fires. Granted, one was Grantaire’s fault but we count it anyway. Combeferre swears he even set broth on fire once. We were all skeptical at first because, I mean come on. It's a nonflammable liquid! But then we saw him trying to make pancakes one brunch and it became unanimous that he shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen.”  
     
      Cosette giggles. “Please tell me he was at least trying to make soup.”  
     
      “There’s no telling.” His laugh ends in a sigh and he looks away. “He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to die. He’s the best person I know, you know? I’d gladly follow him to hell and back if he asked."  
     
      “I hope I get to meet him.”  
     
      “You’d like him and I think he’d like you. I like you. Jehan will love you.” He says with a bright look in his eyes. It look suspicious, unnerving yet exciting. The mischievous look makes sense when the boy suddenly stands up, pulling her up with him. “Do you want to meet them?”  
     
      “Right now?”  
     
      “Yeah!” His face falls. “Unless you can’t.”  
     
      “I’d love to meet them. I’m Cosette, by the way.”  
     
      “Courfeyrac.” The boy beams. He hooks his arm through hers and leads her down the hall to his best friend’s room, chatting all the way, from telling stories to detailed descriptions of each member of his family. They speed to the ICU, Courfeyrac talking animatedly and Cosette listening intently but as they turn a corner the conversation stops dead. Courfeyrac pales. His breathing hitches. Cosette sees the fear first, then the blue suits. Before Courfeyrac can turn away to hide again, Cosette tightens her arm to keep him with her.  
     
      “I want to meet him.” She says. Courfeyrac looks at her, torn between betrayal and admiration. “Please?”  
     
      “I don’t want to talk to them.” He looks away from her, aiming his attention angrily at the men waiting for him at the end of the hall. “It’s stupid anyway. He’s not going to die. It’s Enjolras. He can’t die.”  
     
      “Then we’ll do it as quickly as possible and we’ll go see Enjolras after.” Cosette negotiates as if she’s been his friend for years. “The longer you hide, the longer it’ll be before you can see him again.”  
     
      “He’s not going to die.” He says again. Hatred steals the light from his green eyes as he stares at the detectives. “They are the reason he’s here, you know. A fucking cop hit him.”  
     
      “So get it down on the record.”  
     
      Courfeyrac turns to look at her. If he’s surprised at her steely command he doesn’t show it. She doesn’t worry that she overstepped because the sudden mission in his stance means her comment worked. He stands a little straighter. His face sobers to something colder, more determined. Pride swells in her chest. They walk together to the waiting detectives with an aggressive energy. Cosette isn’t quite sure why, but she feels ready to fight for a boy she’s never met. She’s grateful she kept her warrior princess shoes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments! 
> 
> The next few chapters will take place with in a couple days. I wanted to make sure I got everyone in without being medically unrealistic with Enjolras. Again, this is mostly based off of my brothers incident, which thankfully wasn't as severe, so where I was in the hospital I don't have any medical knowledge outside of that and the internet. If you do have medical knowledge let me know how far off I am, thanks!!


	5. June 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly admits defeat and Feuilly may not actually need this job.

      She stands in the doorway, her shadow falling across his desk. She’s been there for nearly ten minutes now. Still, Joly hasn’t looked up. He knows she’s watching. The half jerk of a nod indicated so much but there was nothing that followed. Normally, she wouldn’t say anything. Normally, he’d come to bed eventually. He’d crawl in gently but exhaustion makes him clumsy and she’d catch a heel in the stomach or an elbow to her chin as he tried to snuggle in. Cute little whispered apologizes would interrupt the quiet room and Bossuet, who is usually asleep but not snoring just yet, would wake up just enough to bring them both together in his strong arms.  
  
      “Bossuet is already asleep but he’s not snoring yet.” Musichetta announces. Normally she wouldn’t say anything, but he hasn’t been in their bed the last few nights and normally he always crawls into bed. Joly nods but, again, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look up from the file in his hands. Musichetta repeats herself a little louder. “Bossuet is already asleep, _Joly_.”  
     
      “I won’t be much longer,” mutters the student.  
     
      “Liar.”  
     
      “Five minutes.”  
     
      “Liar.”  
     
      “There’s just this one more-”   

      “Liar.” She says again, smirking. It’s more bitter than amused. Joly tosses the file onto the desk and it skids away from him, stopping only when it catches several pages of his notes. “Come to bed, Joly.”  
       
      “There is something I can do.” With renewed energy, he reaches out and collects two of his many medical books. Simultaneously, he searches through the pages without any real purpose. Stress and the lack of sleep is making his thoughts sporadic and difficult to rein in. “There has to be something I can do.”  
     
      “There is nothing anyone can do when they are exhausted,” says Musichetta softly. Her head tilts to the side sympathetically.  
     
      He’s quiet for a long few minutes, staring at the books. One is opened to bacterial meningitis and the other stuck on a page diagraming a right foot. Musichetta moves to sit on the edge of the desk so she can study his face and demand his attention. Without a fight, she takes the books out of his hands. After stacking them on top of Enjolras’ medical folder, she turns back to Joly to see him looking up to her. There are tears threatening. “Oh honey.”  
     
      She collects him in her fierce and loving hug. Muffled against her soft pajama shirt which is just Bossuet’s old t-shirt, he admits his fear. “I can’t do anything. I can’t help, Chetta.” He pulls back to study her face intensely, making sure she hears and understands his uselessness. “I can’t fix this.”  
           
      “No one can, Jol.” She whispers, pressing him back against her chest. They sit together for several long minutes before there are soft footsteps, then a curse and a chuckle as Bossuet limps into the low light of the living room. He pauses in the doorway, watching just as Musichetta had.  
     
      “Come to bed,” says Bossuet softly yet sternly. It is more hopeful than demanding. He knows he holds little power in this relationship, something he’s quite happy with as a rather amicable man.  
     
      Joly moves away from his girlfriend again, to stare at him. Newly determined, he states, “Not until I know how to help.”  
     
      “You can’t, babe. Not right now. Not yet.” Musichetta reminds gently.  
     
      “Yes I can. There is something. There is always something.” In a quieter voice, he says, “There has to be.”  
     
      “Joly, you said so yourself. All we can do right now is wait.” She collects his hands in her own. “How about we make food for Combeferre and Courfeyrac tomorrow? That’s helping. Albeit, indirectly but still it’s something.”  
     
      The med student sniffs. He ducks his head but nods, admitting defeat more to himself than to her.  
     
      “It’s far colder in there by myself,” says Bossuet. “That is something you can fix.”  
     
      Through his tears, Joly chuckles. He squeals then, when his boyfriend picks him up and throws him over his shoulder. In the dark, he tosses the smaller man in the direction of the bed. A wide grin pulls across his face as Musichetta dives on top of him. Slower and more carefully, he climbs on to the bed and gathers them both in his arms. Joly’s soft cries are slowing but they can be heard in the quiet room and Musichetta leaves little tears on his shoulder. Bossuet pulls them both closer until the heat is almost unbearable. He plants firm kisses on the tops of their heads, fighting back tears of his own.  
     
      He’s scared of losing Enjolras and he’s afraid of the very real possibility that this could tear their world apart but he’s so horribly grateful his bed is still as full and warm as it was two weeks ago. It makes his heart heavy with guilt because he knows Courfeyrac will wake up in an empty apartment and Combeferre won’t even sleep in a bed. He could say it’s not the same. He can justifying his relief by saying they are friends where his apartment is full of lovers but there is no honesty in that. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are as much of a family as he, Joly, and Musichetta are. If not more so, as they have been together much longer.  
     
      He forces his eyes closed and plants another kiss on his girlfriend, then on his boyfriend, trying desperately to shake the image of Enjolras just lying there and shut out the screams of Combeferre. The pleads. The fear. The absolute heartbreaking panic. He tries not to see Joly or Musichetta lying there so, so horribly still. He tries not to hear his own voice wrapped around those terror filled, faith shattering screams.  
     
      It is closer to dawn when Bossuet finally falls asleep. Joly and Musichetta drifted off hours earlier. Every time Bossuet closes his eyes, he sees blood seep into the blond curls. In the dark, Joly’s sniffling sounds horrifyingly similar to the sound the ventilator fills the ICU room. It’s the sound Combeferre will sleep to. He can’t figure out if it’s better to have to get used to the mechanical breathing or a silent apartment but the debate keeps him up until he eventually passes out. He never does come to a conclusion, only that he’s grateful he doesn’t have to decide.

  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  


  
      Bahorels’ hand is absolutely broken. When someone asks, he’ll make a joke about _seeing the other guy_ but they all know that he simply got a little over aggressive with the punching bag today and they all know that is more frightening than Bahorel getting in a fight. Bahorel getting into a fight is normal. Bahorel being upset enough to not know when to stop is not. Being so upset that his aggression leads to a broken hand is not normal.  
     
      The knuckles are blue and purple. His fingers are too stiff to move. Despite his attempts to open and close his hand, his curses are getting less and less creative, a clear sign that he’s failing to do something he’s working desperately on. He’s trying to prove himself right. It’s not working. His hand is absolutely broken. Feuilly states this fact for a third time since they got back to the apartment but the large man simply shakes his head.  
     
      “It’s nothing.” Bahorel says for the third time.  
     
      “We are going to be at the hospital anyway," reminds Feuilly as he hands his friend a package of frozen peas kept around for this exact reason, usually when _seeing the other guy_ is applicable . “You might as well get Joly to check it out.”  
     
      “We?”  
     
      “What?”  
     
      “What do you mean _we_?”  
     
      “I mean you and me.” Feuilly says slowly, suddenly worried that Bahorel may have hit his head as well as his hand. The last protest has made everyone a little more cautious.  
     
      “You can’t come.”  
     
      “Well now, that’s a bit childish.”  
     
      “No, I mean you can’t miss work.” Bahorel says. The other man rolls his eyes but he continues. “You can’t miss anymore work, Feuilly. Don’t risk being fired for-” 

      "Seeing our dying friend in the hospital?”  
     
      Bahorel rolls his neck, tired of this same conversation. “Come on now, that’s not fair. It’s been two weeks. How many days have you missed?”  
     
      The other man gets up from the couch to disappear somewhere in the kitchen and out of view of Bahorel. He doesn’t like this conversation. Feuilly is practical and every ounce of his logic tells him to go to work, that he’ll know if something changes, but it’s all wrong and all he wants to do is wait in the hospital and tell Combeferre it’s going to be alright and hold Enjolras’ hand and bother the nurses with questions. His feet itch to bring him in that direction and on top of the shifts he’s already missed, he’s been late at least three times because he’s gone the wrong direction on the subway, towards the hospital instead of work.  
     
      “How many days, Feuilly?” shouts Bahorel from the couch.  
     
      “I fucking get it, alright!”  
     
      “You have to go to work.”  
     
      “Yeah.” Feuilly says too quietly for his friend to hear. “Yeah, I know.”  
     
      Busying himself with making coffee far too strong to be healthy, he jumps when Bahorel speaks from right behind him. The other boy either appeared in the kitchen without making a sound or Feuilly was too distracted in his own conflicting emotions to hear. “I get it. It’s hard for everyone.”  
     
      “I know.”  
     
      “Look, I’ll go to the hospital now and have Joly check out my hand.” Bahorel says, playing up his defeat. He knows how upset Feuilly is that he can’t be there every minute of the day. He knows how upset his best friend is because he’s upset. Everyone is upset. Everyone is useless. “Keep your phone on you. I’ll send pictures every three minutes to update you. It’ll be like you are practically there.”  
     
      Feuilly laughs. “Please don’t do that. I’ll get fired.”  
     
      “Fine, every five minutes then?”  
     
      “Ten. Every ten minutes.”  
     
      “Well, no promises but I can try.” Bahorel struggles to put his shoes on with one hand and Feuilly stands there and watches like a kid who got sick on the day of a field trip. The big man looks up, then steps forward. He wraps his large arms and his broken hand, still balancing the peas, around his red headed friend. The hug is tight and fierce and lasts a little too long but Feuilly buries his face into his best friends shirt and Bahorel buries his own in Feuilly’s soft, red hair. They part with no words. Feuilly jumps in the shower to get ready for work and Bahorel leaves for the hospital, ignoring the tear stains on his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	6. June 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius meets Cosette and Grantaire sees his Apollo

     Marius wakes up to the irritatingly shrill ring. He decides before opening his eyes that he’s going to have to do something about that terrible noise until, after a long look at his phone, it's clear he has slept thirty minutes past his alarm. He stumbles around the apartment in a sleepy haze, trying his best to get ready quickly. His shower was cold, his socks don’t match, and his laces aren’t tied but he’s out the door only ten minutes late. By the time he gets to Courfeyrac’s apartment, his friend is already waiting on the steps outside his apartment building. Courfeyrac smiles. He doesn’t say anything about the timing. He simply warns Marius his laces are undone, then waits patiently for his friend to tie his shoes.  
     
     In the car, they are quiet. Courfeyrac watches the familiar city fade as they merge on to the highway, trying to keep the depression from overwhelming his mind, and Marius works up the confidence to ask for advice. Halfway into the drive, he finally speaks up. It’s too soft, mumbled under his breath. Courfeyrac has to ask him to repeat it twice before Marius eventually gets his volume to something close to audible. “Courf, have you ever liked a girl?”  
     
     “I have liked many girls, Marius.”  
     
     “No I mean like _liked_ a girl. Like all you want to do is hold her hand and watch her laugh.”  
    
     Courf thinks about it and realizes Enjolras is the only one he wants to hear laugh right now. He physically shakes his head to rid himself of the dwelling sorrow. “No not really. Not yet, at least I guess. Why?”  
    
     Marius blushes. A shy smile threatens his forced casualness. “Well there's this girl.”  
     
     “Really?” Courfeyrac asks with his own forced excitement. Despite his efforts, it comes off more indifferent than he hoped. He sits up straighter, turning to face his friend to see if that overcomes his lack of enthusiasm. “What’s she’s like?”  
     
     “I haven’t exactly talked to her yet but she’s beautiful!” Marius gushes. It turns out Courfeyrac didn’t need valid interest. “She works at the hospital. Mostly in the children’s ward, I think. Maybe she’s a nurse or an intern like Joly. She’s beautiful! Long blond hair and these stunning but soft blue eyes. Her laugh echoes but in the sweet way not in the loud, obnoxious kind of way, you know?”  
     
     Courfeyrac knits his brow. “Are you talking about Cosette?”  
     
     “Cosette? No, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure her initials are different.”  
     
     “She’s kind of short and walks on her toes?”   

     “Yeah,” confirms Marius reluctantly. “But I’m almost positive her initials are different. She wears ribbons in her braid all the time and she’s friends with everybody. She’s perfect, Courf.”  
     
     “I’m one hundred and ninety-eight percent sure you are talking about Cosette.” Marius rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond. “If it’s not,” Courfeyrac continues. “You should meet her. She’s amazing.”  
     
     “Courfeyrac, I don’t think you understand. I’m in love.”  
         
     He laughs. “You haven’t even talked to this chick!”  
     
     “I should have asked Jehan,” mutters Marius. He wants to be upset but Courfeyrac is his best friend and Marius can’t be angry at him. Especially when the Irishman squeezes his arm endearingly and offers him a kind smile. Marius grins, still blushing a little. The same pleasant silence that always fills their car rides to the hospital settles around them. They park in the same spot and wave at the same receptionist. Courfeyrac shudders at the familiarity of it all.  
     
     A foot past the double doors to the ICU, Marius spots the love of his life. He can’t stop himself before he’s hissing in Courfeyrac’s ear. “That’s her!”      
      
     Courfeyrac looks at the girl Marius is motioning to as subtly as the poor boy can manage. He shakes his head, whispering, “God I love being right.” Still looking at Marius, Courfeyrac shouts, “Cosette!”  
     
     The blond turns around from the nurses desk and Marius flinches. She grins, waving at her friend as she trots over. Marius stands stock still, smiling awkwardly. His hands dance by his side in uncontainable excitement. After a quick, tight hug Cosette steps back from Courfeyrac and faces Marius with a charming little smirk. It’s sweet but devious and Courfeyrac has to smile at the clever girl. There is no doubt she knows how to walk so her hips sway just that magical sort of way woman have of doing. He wouldn’t have predicted it from her but now that he sees it, it makes sense.  
     
     “Cosette this is Marius. Marius this is Cosette.” Courfeyrac introduces quickly, eager to get to Enjolras. “You two kids have fun. Be safe. Keep me updated on this beautiful relationship.”  
     
     Marius stutters a request to stay but it’s too late and Courfeyrac has already disappeared down the hall. He turns to Cosette, her blue eyes reflecting the harsh light in the waiting room and her hands pulled behind her back. Suddenly it doesn’t matter that Courfeyrac is no longer here. “Hi. I’m Marius Pontmercy.”  
     
     “I’m Cosette Fauchelevent.” She smiles and his heart stops.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
     He had fallen, just as Grantaire had predicted. He had fallen but it was not the beautifully tragic way Grantaire had painted for the last five years. There were no burnt wings or unimaginable forces. There was no better cause or valiant effort or honorable sacrifice. There was nothing accomplished. It was as simple as he fell ten feet off an ugly statue because a cop was too impatient just to let him climb down. Grantaire knew Courfeyrac was looking for the specific cop that hit him, but it hasn’t led to anything yet. They all think the hefty medical bills will be paid by the one responsible. No one but Grantaire seems to understand that it won’t get anywhere. The cops are going to protect cops. They’ll probably do a better job than their friends had.  
     
     He had one job. One job. One job and it was the worst fucking job he could have had on the worst fucking day and he told Enjolras it was all fucking wrong. He told Enjolras it was going to end with someone in the hospital or in jail. Grantaire hates being right.  
     
     No amount of drinking could keep it from replaying over and over and over again in his head. He tried every bottle in his apartment, then every one in the Musian. He’s slept in every apartment except his own because each one of his friends has been placed on Grantaire Duty and every night it has been easier, and safer, to drag him back to their own apartment to sleep off whatever bottle he tried that particular night.  
     
     Last night was Musichetta’s turn and the girl had to pay the taxi driver an extra twenty because she couldn’t carry him up the stairs by herself and Joly and Bossuet were both at work. He owes her something extra on top of the cash because that morning she brought him to the hospital, just as he had pleaded and begged the night before. It was ugly and pathetic as he curled around her on the couch because he couldn’t make it to the spare bedroom. She ran her fingers through his hair and whispered soft promises until he finally passed out.  
     
     He’s in the waiting room. The sun has just started to break through the buildings shadows. Musichetta’s next to him, constantly reminding him to drink his Gatorade and eat the breakfast she packed for him. It was sitting on the counter after his shower next to a great big cup of strong coffee. Grantaire owes her something big.  
     
     Nodding, he takes a generous sip to prove he’s behaving. Grantaire doesn’t look up at her to see if she saw, though. It’s the one photo he’s stuck on. The one photo left on his camera that has followed him through every bottle. It’s shocking that he has yet to destroy his camera in his drunken stupor. This photo is the photo Enjolras would want. Grantaire considers deleting it. His finger hovers over the little trash can in the corner of the screen but his eyes linger on Enjolras’s heels as they hang half off the edge. His hands are thrown up, his weight is shifting backwards, away from the threatening cop. The magnificently carved marble didn’t distract from Enjolras’s demanding beauty. Every eye was on the blond. Every ear was turned to him. It really was a brilliantly planned protest.  
     
     Combeferre was there. Just below the statue Enjolras pulled himself up on to. Just the top of his brown hair can be seen and Grantaire tries not to be angry at Combeferre for letting it happen. He tries not to blame Combeferre. Yet. Combeferre was there and Grantaire was not. Combeferre was there and Grantaire was not and Enjolras fell off the stupid fucking statue.  
     
     Grantaire takes another sip of his drink at Musichetta’s command and he waits with something close to patience for the nurse to call his name, all the while staring at that stupid fucking picture of Enjolras on the stupid fucking statue with Combeferre watching it happen.  
      
     Grantaire walked into the room, all white and clean and _hospital_. Combeferre was awake and smiled warmly yet sadly at the other boy but Grantaire didn’t see him. He didn’t see anything other than the thick neck brace supporting his strong Apollo and he didn’t see anything other than the stark black stitches peaking out from under the horrible bandages. It was all too clean and white and _hospital_. He hates it. He hates everything about it but that’s stupid because there is nothing about this situation that any of them should like.  
     
     That first time Grantaire didn’t say anything to Combeferre. He didn’t yell at him for letting it happen nor did he thank him when he left so the two could be alone. There was nothing to say and too much to say just as it’s easier to focus on Enjolras and impossibly hard to do so.  
     
     “Hey Grantaire.” Combeferre says. _You look tired. You look hungover, too. How much are you drinking? How much are you eating? You should take better care of yourself. Enjolras is going to be pissed if you let yourself end up in here, too._ He politely doesn’t say. It’s not in his place when Combeferre looks exhausted and thinner and smells just a little because he’s afraid to shower seeing as it leaves Enjolras alone for all too long. Lately he’s been agreeing to stray but only when Courfeyrac is there because Enjolras would be okay waking up to Courfeyrac. But only Courfeyrac and only long enough to wash his hair.  
     
     But he likes holding Éponine’s hand, so when Courfeyrac is here he goes for walks with her. Occasionally he follows Joly around on his rounds and he eats outside on one of the picnic benches with Jehan because otherwise he’s threatened to stop brining delicious food for him and the cafeteria food is too terrible for how expensive it is. He misses being outside, so he doesn’t argue. Their company is more and more gratefully accepted with each passing day. It allows him a few minutes to pretend he’s forgotten that his best friend is fighting for his life. If Courfeyrac is there, then it’s okay.  
     
     Even though it’s just June, the university has already given him the following semester off due to a family emergency and Jehan has helped fill his summer teaching aide position despite how much the poet prefers his precious literature classes over the philosophy class. Things are starting to feel normal, to fall in to a routine, and it’s scaring the living shit out of him because nothing about this situation is normal.  
     
     “Any change?” asks Grantaire even though he knows the answer.  
     
     “Not yet.”  
     
     “He’ll wake up soon.”  
     
     “He will.”  
     
     “He has to.” Grantaire whispers softly as he sits on the other side of the bed in the other blue and white stripped chair and carefully collects what he can of Enjolras’ hand around the huge and complicated cast on that arm.  
     
     “He will.” Combeferre says, mimicking the soft, pleading whisper of the hungover artist. It says a lot that Grantaire hasn’t come to a visit drunk. Combeferre wants to say as much, that he’s both proud and impressed, but he doesn’t know how to bring it up so he simply leaves the room. He leaves the room so Grantaire can cry and plead and beg to the only person who has any right to hear it but Combeferre stands outside the room. Out of sight and almost out of earshot but no more then ten seconds away from Enjolras’ bedside. Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	7. June 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine crunches the numbers.

    She hates it when Gavroche and Azelma aren’t here but for this particular kind of night, she doesn’t want them around. She’s on her second bottle of wine in the empty apartment when she finally picks up the phone. It only takes her one try to enter her passcode. Clearly the wine isn’t helping. “Are you working?”  
     
    “Not anymore.” The familiar voice answers. “Is everything alright?”    

    “Come over.” As an after thought, she softens her demand with a, “Please?”  
     
    “I’m on my way.”  
     
    Fifteen minutes later, meaning he came from work not his apartment, her door opens. Éponine doesn’t glance up from her little spot in front of the coffee table. Her arm is bent to avoid hitting the empty bottles of wine and the tea cup she’s drinking from as she writes across the superheroes notebook she stole from her little brother. He doesn’t need an invitation. The boy places a chocolate bar and a bottle of wine in front of her, then plops down on the couch, opposite of Éponine.  
     
    “I brought supplies,” is all he says before she hands over her notes. He takes them without a question, reading them over while Éponine pours him wine. She has a limited collection of wine glasses so she keeps her red stained tea cup and gives Feuilly the glass. He’s always been classier than her anyway.  
     
    Feuilly’s eyes narrow as he reads through the numbers a second time. Éponine doesn’t watch him. All she’s been able to do is look over those numbers, think about those numbers, dream about those fucking numbers. She doesn’t want to burden Feuilly with the stress but she needs her rock. Instead of watching his face, trying to predict what he makes of it, she breaks the chocolate bar he brought her in to squares. It’s the fancy kind from organic stores, with a meadow on the wrapper and a sappy poem inside. She reads the poem before folding it up to give to Jehan later.  
     
    The ginger whistles. “That’s a hefty sum.” He tosses it back just as she had so it lands between them. The cost of a grave plot versus cremation in the black inky pen reflects in the sinking summer sun. Picking up his wine glass, he raises an eyebrow. “Planning for retirement?”  
     
    “Don’t do that.”  
     
    “What am I doing?”      
     
    “You know what you are doing.” She narrows her eyes, then indignantly pops a square of chocolate in her mouth.  
     
    “Making a joke?”  
     
    “Avoiding a serious question.”  
     
    “What’s the question?”  
     
    “What happens when he dies.”  
     
    He’s quick to correct her. “If he dies.”  
      
    “I talked to Joly. It’s more likely than not.”  
     
    “Have you talked to Combeferre about it?”  
     
    “Of course not.”  
     
    “Well that’s dumb. If anyone has actually thought about this crap,” he waves his hand at the notepad and it’s insulting foreshadowing. “It’s him.”  
     
    “Combeferre is adjusting their apartment and making a schedule so Enjolras is never alone when he gets released. I doubt he’s considered the other side.”  
     
    “It’s Combeferre. He always considers the other side.” She grows quiet, torn between feeling guilty and defending herself. Feuilly sits up on the couch and rests his elbows on his knees. Before remembering he can’t stand the dark chocolate, he takes a bite. Making a face, he hands the rest to Éponine. “You should ask him.”  
     
    “I don’t want to upset him. I think he really believes Enjolras will just pull through.”  
     
    “Enjolras could just pull through.”  
     
    Éponine studies him before sighing. “Feuilly, I need you to be practical.”  
     
    “I am being practical. I won’t think about this until it is confirmed that it is something that absolutely needs to be thought about.” The red headed man states. Éponine rolls her neck in frustration. In reality, they both know she called him to hear that. For confirmation that it’s okay not to be prepared for the worse case scenario just yet and for a distraction. Certainly she knows he’s just as upset about the situation as everyone else is but he knows she has had to be stronger than he’s had to be. She’s had to be there for Combeferre. Feuilly is more than happy to be her rock, her big hug, her distraction. He always has been. He’s may not be as strong as she thinks him to be but he can damn well pretend. “Now for a serious question. What’s going on with you and Combeferre?”  
     
    “I don’t know what you are talking about.”  
     
    “Don’t do that.”  
     
    “Making a joke?” She mimics, scrunching her nose in a bratty little smirk that she knows he finds adorable. Feuilly only stares at her with a knowing smile of his own until she caves and rolls her eyes. “Fuck you.”  
     
    “For what it’s worth, I like it.”  
     
    Éponine studies his face, biting her lip thoughtfully. Too trusting and too insecure, she gives up the charade. “Yeah?”  
     
    “Yeah. I like him much better than Pontmercy. I think he’d treat you better. That’s the only thing that matters to me.”  
     
    “Marius is the most romantic person I’ve ever met. I can’t imagine he treat me less than anyone else.” She tells the cup in her hand because she can’t bear to see the look he’s giving her. She has no reason to defend Marius and they both know it.  
     
    “Marius is looking for some bubbly little princess to spoil.” Feuilly informs with a sigh. They've had this conversation before. “You may be a princess but, trust me, you are anything but bubbly. It would be weird if you were.”  
     
    “I'm not a princess.”  
     
    “No?”  
     
    “I'm the fucking queen, Feuilly. Get it right or I'll be forced to cut off your head.”  
     
    He throws his head back and laughs. “See, Pontmercy can't handle that. Pontmercy doesn’t love that. Not that you'd want someone kissing your feet, anyway. Combeferre is the opposite of the kid. He's not dreamy, he's not lofty, he's not soft.” Feuilly says the last part like it tastes bad in his mouth. He's never had a problem with Marius but he's always made it clear where his loyalty lies. Eight years of knowing, helping, and loving Éponine isn’t easily overrun by Marius’ freckles and awkward ramblings. “Combeferre is good. He’s kind and he’s strong. He suits you much better than Pontmercy ever did because he’ll take care of you without protecting you. You don’t need someone to rescue you.”  
     
    “Come on, Feuilly. Tell me how you really feel,” jokes Éponine. He only rolls his eyes good naturally, knowing he ranted a bit. “And since we are sharing feelings today, have you and Bahorel finally fucked?”  
     
    “Ponine, I love Bahorel, I do, but you know better than anyone that I am not gay.”     She thinks for a moment before glancing up at him from under her thick lashes, her lips pursed and her eyebrow arched challengingly. Maybe the wine is helping. “Is that so?”  
     
    It’s his turn to speak to his glass. “Not tonight, Ép.” Ignoring him, she steps on to the coffee table, then gracefully climbs on to the couch until she’s straddling him. She takes his glass and places it on the table while carefully sliding her hips in the process. He leans his head back to look at her, aiming for stern but it’s difficult when her shirt is falling off her shoulders like that. “We aren’t doing this.”  
     
    Éponine leans in, just barely brushing her lips against his ear. Her hands are twisted in his shirt and his are on either side of her hip. His calloused thumbs sweep under her shirt. In a breathy whisper, she asks, “Why not?”  
     
    “I’m not going to fuck you when you’re thinking about someone else.”  
     
    “It never stopped you when it was Marius.”  
     
    His breath hitches when she bites his ear but he manages to respond. “You weren’t really thinking about him.”  
     
    The girl grinds her hips forward just enough to get him to bite back a moan and therefore successfully shutting him up. Feuilly’s hands tighten in response. She moves to bite down his neck, but his firm grip pushes her back. She growls, but sits up anyway. “What makes this different?”  
     
    “Tell me,” says Feuilly in a low voice. He’s fighting the lust of Éponine pressing up against him. “When I do this,” he challenges, running a teasing finger between her skin and the lace under her jeans. She closes her eyes and subconsciously moves into the touch, bending her head back. “Do you imagine Combeferre?”  
     
    She freezes, then sends Feuilly a glare that’s more sad than angry. “That’s not fair,” she mutters quietly.  
     
    “You both like each other. I’m not going to be the jerk who helps you two idiots fuck it up.” Feuilly explains. After a minute of studying his face and honestly pouting, Éponine sinks against his chest. His strong arms wrap around her. He kisses her black hair, smiling. It’s not often that he wins.  
     
    A long moment passes before she admits softly into his shoulder, “I like him.”  
     
    “I know.”  
     
    “You think he likes me?”  
     
    “I know he does.”  
     
    “Huh,” is her only response as she curls further into his warm embrace. He chuckles and she ignores it, biting back her own smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this may be ooc but I feel like Feuilly and Éponine could have met in a foster home at one time or another and because she can't turn to R, despite him being her best friend, she goes to her long time rock, where he's the one person she can break down in front of without worrying about them breaking down, too. Anyhow, that's how I have her coming in to the amis...


	8. June 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan isn't making it up.

     He had sat in the cell for nearly six hours. He and Grantaire. There was blood on his hands, on his shirt, on his face but none of it was his own. Jehan was grateful for the cops respectful enough to put them all in the same cell and it’s not often Jehan can say he’s grateful for cops. It would have been real cruelty to have been left wondering about everyone else as well as Enjolras. Imaginations are most dangerous when left alone.  
     
     They were the only four to get arrested and in comparison to other protests, that’s a pretty decent number. There were no pats on the back, though, for their low arrest rate. No cheers or _fuck ya_ ’s. There were only tears and fear and worse case scenarios.  
     
     In the corner of the holding cell, Grantaire cried. Bahorel paced back and forth and Bossuet stood with his arms hanging outside the bars, watching the cops come and go with a frighteningly vague stare. Jehan wanted to comfort Grantaire or steady Bahorel. He wanted to get Bossuet to sit down because he was shaking ever so slightly but there was blood on his hands. How could Jehan comfort anyone with blood on his hands? With blood under his nails, staining his jeans, snaking up from the soles of his shoes. It was too much of a reminder of the hell they were all just witness to. With blood on your hands you want to fight someone, not hold them.  
     
     Bahorel and Bossuet were released three hours earlier than the other two after they had _calmed down from the rioting fervor_. Grantaire and Jehan were forced to stay longer due to their direct attack against police officers. They were trying to make an example out of them. The cops are always trying to make examples of them.  
     
     In the planning of this particular riot, it was their orders to return back to the apartment should it turn south. They were, along with Joly and Éponine, to be ready for the others, should they need milk for pepper spray burns or ice for bruised knuckles. They were to wait by the phone for the always anticipated call from jail with the specific bail amount. Their stations in the buildings were strategically placed to ensure they would be on the right side of the police barriers. Éponine and Joly were in similar positions on the other side of the plaza. They were able to go straight to the hospital but Jehan followed a frantic Grantaire into the row of riot officers, just as eager to feel the blood on his hands.  
    
     After Jehan ended up in the hospital when their first protested turned to a violent riot, one of their worst to date, Enjolras quietly insisted he be better protected in the future. The poet didn’t mind. He’d fight to the death to protect a friend, following Grantaire to get to Enjolras being a prime example, but he’d rather avoid the blood and as long as he was still productive he indulged the chief, smiling sweetly at Enjolras’ concern. As for Grantaire, it’s not hard to see why Enjolras kept him outside the police barricades. Jehan wasn’t the only one that noticed how Enjolras was watching him little more curiously than normal, a little more amused with the cynics nightly antics as opposed to annoyed. He’s not the only one who saw the pure panic when Grantaire suffered a concussion in the fight outside the Musian a few weeks before the protest.  
     
     Being a good friend, and a true meddler, Jehan approached Enjolras about his newly developing interest.  
     
     “He’s a friend,” was the blonds only response.  
     
     “A friend you want to kiss?” Jehan is almost as subtle as Bahorel.  
     
     Enjolras blushed, looking at this shoes. “It doesn’t matter.”  
     
     “Why not?”  
     
     “He’s a friend. If it doesn’t work out, it could screw up the whole group. I’m not going to be responsible for that just because I want to kiss Grantaire.”  
     
     Jehan wished he had responded differently than his soft giggle and slow head shake at Enjolras’ overly mature outlook on relationships. His reasoning, although not improbable, was ridiculous. Jehan should have said that. Jehan should have told him to go for it because while Grantaire cried in a jail cell, Enjolras’ heart stopped beating twice during surgery.  
     
     Grantaire still cries and Enjolras still isn’t breathing on his own and Jehan still feels guilty. The sound of the ventilator filling up the small room doesn’t help. In the thirteen days since the accident, Enjolras hasn’t moved and Combeferre has moved into the hospital.  
     
     Today, Jehan brought four new books from his store. This is his small contribution. Musichetta brings snacks. Éponine a sympathetic ear. Bossuet and Bahorel good humor. It’s not enough, though. Not when Jehan brings books he knows Enjolras hasn’t read yet because Combeferre likes to read out loud to him and Musichetta brings food because otherwise Combeferre wouldn’t get enough to eat. For some strange and irrational reason, it only feels worse when Combeferre responds sincerely and wholeheartedly at what little bits of comfort they can offer. It’s like they are the ones sitting with Enjolras for hours on end. It’s like they are the ones that believe if they hold his hand long enough, eventually he’ll feel it.  
     
     “You’re amazing, Jehan!” Combeferre proclaims with a giddy shift on the seat as the poet hands over his presents. “Thank you so much.”      
  
     Jehan grins, taking the seat on the other side of the bed. “It’s the least I can do.”  
     
     “Really, Jehan.” Combeferre turns the books over in his hands, growing emotional in his gratitude and exhaustion. “Thank you.”  
     
     “Anything for you,” assures Jehan. It’s an understood you, meaning both Combeferre and Enjolras. “I’m just glad I can be of some help.”  
     
     “You are. More than you know.”  
     
     A moment passes before both their eyes land on Enjolras. Jehan speaks up first. “You look tired.”  
     
     Combeferre shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep last night for some reason.”  
     
     “Why don’t you sleep now?”  
     
     “I’m alright,” he lies.  
     
     Instead of fighting him, Jehan offers to read a book out loud with every intention of Combeferre feeling comfortable enough to sleep. They don’t usually waste visits reading out loud but Combeferre is exhausted and Jehan is here to help. The other boy reluctantly agrees, pretending to be the one indulging Jehan because he brought Dante’s _Paradiso_ with him and _really, Combeferre, it’s best heard_. It’s in Italian and Jehan’s voice resounds softly, rhythmically in the nearly empty white room.  
     
     Despite the morning sun just starting to creep in around the curtains, Combeferre struggles to keep his head up. He’s not listening to Jehan but nodding off to his gentle yet animated voice and Jehan is happy enough to provide some measure of comfort. It’s not until he sinks down in his chair and rests his head on Enjolras’ hand that Jehan finally stops. He stands up, puts his book down, and crosses the room without Combeferre noticing. Only when he gently hooks his hands under his friends arms does Combeferre shoot up. His eyes are closed and his protests nothing more than rambles about keeping Enjolras with him. Jehan wonders how dark Combeferre’s dreams have gotten.  
     
     “I’ll sit with him,” promises Jehan as he moves Combeferre to the couch. By the time Jehan covers him with a little blanket Combeferre is asleep. In the blue and white striped chair, the poet takes up his promise and with it Enjolras’ hand. Effortlessly, he returns to reading the italian epic.  
     
     Occasionally, he glances over to Combeferre to ensure he’s still sleeping but he never lets go of Enjolras’ hand. Even when he has to turn the page, Jehan manages to do it with one hand, a trick he learned long ago so he’d never have to put down his tea. It is during his pause to turn the page that the hand in his own moves. Distracted, Jehan smiles endearingly at Enjolras’ impatience. “I know, I’m getting there.”  
     
     Realizing what he just said, Jehan looks up. Enjolras’ eyes are closed, his breathing is assisted, and his skin still pale. He looks the same as he has in the last thirteen days. Thinking he’s simply imagining things he wants to be reality, it wouldn't be the first time, Jehan continues reading on the new page. His words drop off and his breathing hitches when Enjolras’ thumb jerks up in his hand. Wide-eyed, Jehan leans forward. He squeezes his friend’s hand, hopeful that Enjolras will reciprocate the action. “Enjolras?” Jehan calls softly. “Come on, Enjolras. Open your eyes so I know I’m not crazy.”  
     
     The blond remains still for a long stretch of time, long enough for Jehan to sink back into the chair. As soon as his sigh finishes, there is another flinch of Enjolras’ fingers, then his thumb.  Jehan jumps off the chair, shouting for Combeferre at the same time he leans over the blond. Combeferre is quick to wake up and even faster to join Jehan by the bed. “He’s moving his hand. He’s moving his hand, Combeferre!”  
     
     Combeferre takes Enjolras’ hand in his own and squeezes, calling his friend’s name and pleading for him to wake up. Impatiently, Jehan stands over them. He watches. His foot taps nervously against the tile. Minutes go by. Enjolras doesn’t move. Jehan repeats over and over again that he wasn’t imagining it. Combeferre’s pleads grow more distressed. There are tears building in his eyes.  
     
     An hour goes by. Enjolras doesn’t move. The room grows heavy with a desperate sort of tension. A nurse comes by and Jehan is asked to leave. In his haste to apologize to Combeferre and swear that Enjolras moved, Jehan forgets his book. For the rest of the day, Combeferre doesn’t move from his chair. His hand doesn’t disappear from Enjolras and his tears don’t fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	9. June 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wakes up

     Enjolras had trusted him. He had relied on him and Combeferre wasn’t there. Combeferre didn’t see it. He could have seen it coming, if he had been where he was supposed to be. Where they had planned for him to be. He could have pulled the cop down. Let the cop be the one who falls, let the cop be the one who lies in the hospital for weeks. Let his brother be the one who cries every night. But Combeferre fucked up and it’s Enjolras in the hospital and it’s Combeferre crying every night. Combeferre let his best friend fall and now he’s in the hospital, something that Combeferre could have prevented. This time Combeferre isn’t going to miss it. He is going to make sure that everything he can do is done, everything he can predict and prepare for is predicted and prepared for because Combeferre fucked up once and he’d be damned if he does it again.  
     
     There are tears at the corners of those beautiful blue eyes that have been closed for too, too long and small whimpering noises that sound like they are intended to be screams echoing in the quiet hospital. If it didn’t break Combeferre’s heart he would have laughed because Enjolras doesn’t do anything half-assed. One minute he’s as still as he has been for the last two weeks then the next he’s coughing up the fucking breathing tube and scaring Combeferre shitless. It’s more action the room has seen since Bossuet tripped over the IV stand, nearly bringing the equipment down on top of him.  
     
     “I know. I know. I know.” Combeferre is saying. He is holding Enjolras’ shoulders down, pinning him to the bed to keep him from pulling the plastic out and doing more damage. It’s not entirely necessary as Enjolras has about as much strength as anyone with a broken neck could have. “I know, ‘jolras, I’m trying. I promise.”  
     
     Enjolras is struggling to fight. His eyes roll back but Combeferre shouts for him to _be patient for just this once_ with a tired, scared laugh attached to it that makes him force his eyes open. The blurry blue watches Combeferre, following his every move, his every word and it’s the only thing Combeferre has ever wanted to see.  
     
     “Someone’s coming, alright? They will help.” Combeferre promises before looking over his shoulder and screaming again for the nurse or doctor or some passerby, just anyone _damn it_ , until his throat feels as raw as it was the first night in the hospital.  
     
     Someone finally hears him and bodies swarm into the room, pushing him aside. When he loses contact he panics and by the frantic movements of Enjolras’ hand searching for Combeferre, the blond is just as unhappy about being parted. The many hands manage to keep Enjolras pinned long enough to remove the breathing tube safely but both boys continue to fight to get back to each other. Enjolras does scream, once his mouth is free of the dreadful plastic, and his throat is wrecked from the tube and lack of use and he reaches out to weakly push the people away until Combeferre shoves a plump nurse to the side and grabs Enjolras’s hand. The blond clutches onto his best friend’s familiar grasp. His hold is fragile but constant. Even when the last nurse steps back and Enjolras has already fallen back asleep from the effort, tears at the corner of those eyes, he’s still holding, clutching, clinging to Combeferre.  
     
     Combeferre sits in his chair and rests his head on Enjolras’s hand in both of his own. The pale fingers curled into his own. It’s a small, promising connection. He presses his lips to the fingers that flinch ever so lightly. Fat tears of relief slide down his cheeks onto their hands where they rest together. He’s fucking _alive_.  
  
  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
     Joly smiles. He’s standing in front of a firing squad and he can only laugh. It’s a giddy, antsy kind of excitement. Question after question after question gets shouted out at him. He answers as best as he can manage in his best bedside manner but someone is asking the next question before he’s finished answering the last one and soon he’s shouting answers and pointing at people and feels like he’s hosting some kind of sick game show. It’s too loud for a hospital waiting room. Still, he bites at his growing smile.  
     
     “What does that mean?”  
     
     “It means-”  
     
     “Is he awake now?”           
      
     “No.”  
     
     “What are the side effects Joly?”  
     
     “More than I can-”  
     
     “He coughed it up?”  
     
     “Of course he did.”  
     
     “Can we see him?”  
     
     “No, not until-”  
     
     “When does he get to go home?”  
     
     “That’s-”  
     
     “Why can’t we see him?”  
     
     “You can but not unti-”  
     
     “Does he remember everything?”  
     
     “I don’t know.”  
     
     “Why can’t we see him?”      
  
     “Not until-”  
     
     “How severe is the damage?”  
     
     “I don’t know.”  
     
     “What do we do if he forgets everything?”  
     
     “We-”  
     
     “Shut up!” Éponine shouts, efficiently bringing a dead silence to the waiting room. Even the couple in the corner and the small family behind them stop talking at the girl’s stern command. The receptionist hides her smile. Éponine is frightening and righteous, taking everything she’s learned from Enjolras as a leader in the past five years. “Everyone shut the fuck up.”  
     
     The quiet hush visibly relaxes the kids in the room. It’s an order. They can follow orders when they need to. Grantaire and Jehan stop pacing. They don’t sit down but their footsteps no longer echo in the room and it steadies hearts. Musichetta is rubbing Joly’s back as he wrings his hands in front of the excitedly aggressive crowd and Marius sits down, then stands up, only to sit back down in his fight with uncertainty. He only stills when Cosette takes his hand, smiling reassuringly.  
     
     “Now, one at a time.” Éponine declares, clearly in charge of the room. It’s silent for a beat before everyone asks a question. At the sudden rise of noise, they fall silent, looking from one to another for someone to start.  
     
     “Can we see him?” Grantaire finally pipes up. His voice cracks in its frantic, spiraling thoughts and Bahorel gets up to physically pull him into a seat.  
     
     “Not right now,” answers Joly. “He only woke up an hour ago. The doctors will most likely keep him occupied for a few days, especially since he won’t be able to stay awake for very long.”  
     
     Feuilly speaks up next. “But he’ll be okay?”  
     
     “It’s too early to tell.”  
     
     “What’s that mean?” Bahorel asks from his seat next to Grantaire. He’s sitting back, looking almost comfortable in the horrible plastic chairs they are all too familiar with but his one hand, the broken one in it’s blue cast, is resting heavily on Grantaires’ back. A heavy weight, a hefty anchor.  
     
     “He just woke up-.”  
     
     “Yeah, you said that already. What does it mean?”      
     
     “Be nice Bahorel.” Musichetta warns and the large man visibly shrinks under her threatening gaze. Joly collects her hand in his own and she holds tightly. Tension is thicker now than when they thought Enjolras was dying.  
     
     “It means that he has a fractured skull and a broken neck. It means that he has had three surgeries and needs at least one more.” Joly states calmly. “It means that it is all too early to tell how bad the recovery will be, how severe the symptoms are, or what to expect.”  
     
     “Is he going to be able to walk?” Éponine asks. Quickly, before Joly repeats himself, she adds, “As of right now, I mean. What do we know?”  
     
     He sighs. All the Amis lean in to hear the answer except for Marius, who pulls out his phone to take notes. “The neck injury was repaired in surgery and he should only have to wear the brace for a few more weeks. It’s not nearly as severe as the head injury was and, at the moment, there is no sign of paralysis so that’s a really good sign.”  
     
     “What about the head injury? Is he going to have amnesia or something?” Feuilly asks.  
     
     “Apparently he remembered Combeferre, or at least reacted to him some what appropriately, but again we won’t know until the doctors talk to him.”  
     
     “And he’s breathing on his own again? I mean without the tube,” says Jehan apprehensively. He hasn’t slept the past two days and the ink from his pens have almost completely covered his hands.  
     
     Joly tilts his head to the side, forming the best answer he can with out starting another shouting match. “Technically he is. However, it’s not completely sufficient -meaning!” He raises his hand against interruptions. “Meaning he’s not strong enough to get the proper oxygen he needs. He will have wear a mask until his levels improve. With improved oxygen levels, he’ll get stronger and eventually he _will_ be breathing completely on his own. It’s normal and, like most things he’ll struggle with in the next few weeks, a progression over time.”  
     
     “And the other side effects?” Éponine asks, forgetting her role as mediator.  
     
     “Most commonly? Memory loss, confusion, difficulty paying attention, loss of language skills, mood swings.” He sighs again. “Look, there are an unpredictable amount of outcomes that I could spend all day going over but we really won’t know until he is more conscious.”  
     
     “But he’s going to be okay, right?” Grantaire asks loudly.  
     
     “As of right now, he’s awake and he’s alive and that’s more than what we could have asked for yesterday.” Joly reminds and the room solemnly nod their optimistic yet realistic agreements. Enjolras is awake. Enjolras is _alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	10. June 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac stole a couch and it's good for Combeferre.

     Somehow, the other day, they lost the second chair in the room. It didn’t hamper Courfeyrac, though. He simply used it as an excuse to find another couch. How he found it, Combeferre didn’t want to know. He has a suspicious feeling that Bahorel and Jehan had something to do with it, seeing as they are the ones who helped carry it. Possibly Cosette, too. He doesn’t think she’s above stealing a couch and she knows the hospital well enough to know where and when to carry out such a scheme because knowing Courfeyrac it would have been elaborate. They probably had coordinating disguises and code-names. It wouldn’t be the first time. Combeferre may ask her next time she visits. If he’s curious. Or bored. She may have pictures.  
     
     Whatever complicated plan Courfeyrac went through to obtain the second couch, Combeferre’s happy for it. The extra couch means Courfeyrac can sleep more comfortably, meaning Combeferre doesn’t feel nearly as guilty about him staying the night. Now that Enjolras is awake every few hours, if only for a minute or two when they’re lucky, it’s been exhausting. Last night alone Combeferre was up six separate times. He won’t let himself miss a minute with Enjolras if he can. It’s easier to handle the way Enjolras just blinks a few times before falling asleep again or the discomfort of a hospital at night with someone else. Especially Courfeyrac. His company keeps Combeferre breathing a little easier. He should say something. He should thank him.  
     
     He should say how grateful he is that Courfeyrac doesn’t blame Combeferre for letting Enjolras fall and how he doesn’t mention the times he has to wake Combeferre up from the nightmares he’s been having. The nightmares where he sees Enjolras but the crowd closes in on him before Combeferre can get there and the bloodcurdling screams for help can still be heard despite the hundreds of bodies between them. The nightmares where Enjolras looks like he’s sleeping until Combeferre turns him over and suddenly there is blood and broken bones and tears everywhere. The nightmares that force Combeferre to decide what flowers to get for the funeral. His choices are vast but they never have red and Enjolras likes red. Enjolras would only want red. The nightmares that leave him a sobbing, uncontrollable mess of fear and dread and the only thing he want’s is to feel Enjolras’ pulse.  
     
     He should mention how much it means to him when Courfeyrac sits close to him every time Enjolras falls back asleep because Combeferre is still not convinced he’ll wake up again. Only occasionally, when he’s sleeping, does Enjolras squeeze Combeferre’s hand and never has it been in response to his initial squeeze. He hasn’t said anything, done anything, tried anything. He just opens his eyes and blinks and falls back asleep. It makes Combeferre angry. It makes him nervous with anticipation. It scares him that this is all Enjolras is capable of now but that’s impossible because Enjolras is capable of changing the world. Still, Courfeyrac sits there and holds him, and some how, for some reason, that makes it all seem a bit easier.  
     
     On the arm of this stolen couch, Courfeyrac shakes his head at the paperwork in his hand. He closes it, then tosses it to the nightstand. It misses, flipping off the corner with a small fluttering sound. He watches it fall with complete disinterest. Combeferre watches him with a smile. Overwhelming relief for his friend swells in his chest.  
     
     “Hey Courf,” starts Combeferre but the words get stuck in his throat. He coughs and readjusts his hold on Enjolras’ hand. He doesn’t want to get emotional today because he cried last night _and Enjolras is going to survive_ so he shouldn’t have to cry as much any more. So instead he asks, “Did you get a chance to talk to Lamarque yesterday?”  
     
     “He said he’s doing everything he can. You know, calling in favors and pulling strings.” Courfeyrac sighs, then shrugs. “But I don’t think it’s going to work.”  
     
     “Because his insurance is limited?”  
     
     “Very limited. I mean limited like if he had appendicitis we may have a fighting chance at a court case where we’d still probably lose anyway. Do you remember when he refused to get his hand x-rayed when it was clearly broken? Well I get it now. Plus, this is so easily declared as preventative. I don’t think we’ll get a dime.” Courfeyrac shakes his head. His talk with the insurance company was unpleasant, to say the least, and ended with a hole in their kitchen window the size of a phone. “Did you know he has dental, though? The fucking asshole. I’m a lawyer and I don’t even have dental.”  
     
     “It’s because Lamarque loves him.”  
     
     “Lamarque loves me too.” Courfeyrac feigns offense but gives up with a dramatic eye roll and a goodnatured smile. Lamarque doesn’t love Courfeyrac as much because Courfeyrac doesn’t love social justice in the violently passionate way Enjolras does that Lamarque finds both inspiring and adorable, as do most people. “Do you?”  
     
     “Full coverage.” Combeferre nods, chuckling.  
     
     “Fucking academic.” He kicks his legs up on the bed. To Enjolras, he says, “He doesn’t get a company car though.”  
     
     Combeferre knits his brow. “You don’t have a drivers license.”  
     
     “Yeah? Well.” He huffs. “My suspension ends in September and I get it back. Then I’ll have a company car-”  
     
     “I’m sure there is some fine print that implies you can’t drive a company car after losing your license. You’re a _huge_ liability.” He holds out his hand when Courfeyrac tries to interrupt, something Combeferre gets away with. “Don’t even try to justify it.”  
     
     “We were two blocks from home!”      
  
     “What does that have to do with anything?”  
     
     “We drove for thirty minutes with it completely secure and they are going to arrest us the last two blocks?” Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Now _that’s_ police cruelty.”  
     
     “Having Bahorel and Jehan sit on the roof of a moving car is not secure.”  
     
     “It was secure enough to get within two blocks of the house,” says Courfeyrac smugly.  
     
     Combeferre smiles but his heart tightens as he realizes how easy it would have been for Bahorel or Jehan to tumble off the side of the car. And all for an old pac-man machine that didn’t even work. Despite Feuilly’s promises he could fix it, that’s not a risk they should have taken. He squeezes his best friends’ hand subconsciously before looking up to tell Courfeyrac this. He opens his mouth but his words fall because Enjolras just squeezed his hand. Looking away from Courfeyrac and forgetting about his growing fear of how stupid all of his friends are, he turns to Enjolras. When he squeezes his hand a second time, Enjolras responds within seconds.  
     
     “Enjolras?” He calls. It knocks Courfeyrac’s feet to the ground, bringing him up to look for whatever Combeferre saw. They’re both hovering in front of Enjolras when he does open his eyes, which shut almost immediately. He squeezes them tight, long enough for a heavy breath before opening them again. It takes him a minute, blinking away sleep and letting out a little yawn, before he tries his best to look around the room. The neck brace is stiff and strong, much stronger than Enjolras and he is limited to how much he can move.  
     
     “Hey man,” says Courfeyrac. He’s better at hiding his worry than Combeferre is but they both beam at Enjolras. The lightness in their chest at those blue eyes has yet to fade. Combeferre has a suspicion that it won’t or at least won’t disappear entirely. You can’t come that close to planning a funeral without the realization that you’re lucky they’re alive. Without finding Courfeyrac, Enjolras closes his eyes. Combeferre’s hope deflates until Enjolras pulls his hand away.  
     
     He knits his brow, sharing a look with Courfeyrac who looks equally baffled as Enjolras starts scratching at the straps on the brace. _This is new._ Failing to remove the dreadful plastic, he moves his hand to his face to give the oxygen mask a try. He whimpers out a frustrated sound. It’s the first sound besides the brief sobs that followed his choking up the breathing tube since he fell.  
     
     Combeferre laughs. It floods his body with warm relief, relief that echoes throughout the room bringing Enjolras’ eyes open. Despite the weak attempts, Combeferre collects Enjolras’ hand in his own, knowing Enjolras should never be underestimated. With his free hand, he pulls the mask off of Enjolras’ face, causing him to flinch as the elastic strap comes dangerously close to his eyes until Courfeyrac reaches out to make sure it comes off smoothly.  
     
     “That can come off for now but the brace has to stay on for a few more weeks.” Combeferre tells him. The blue eyes lock on to his, steady and strong. The two boys share a wide eyed look. It’s the first time he’s shown any indication of hearing them speak. Not wanting to lose the attention, Combeferre continues to talk. He rambles, a bit at a loss of what to say, but talks nonetheless because Enjolras is looking at him. Enjolras is paying attention.  
     
     “Hey, E. Hi,” he says with an eager smile. He scoots up on the bed, his excitement getting the better of him. “Hey. You’re okay. You fell and you’re in the hospital but you are going to be okay. Everyone is okay. You’re going to be fine, because we are here. See? Courf and I are here.”  
     
     Enjolras blinks forcibly, as if trying to clear his vision, and has to drop the gaze to do so but he looks back up. He looks to Combeferre, then Courfeyrac before his face scrunches up suddenly. The two boys shift nervously, fearing the worse. It fades and he sneezes. It’s a small but powerful sound that sends both Combeferre and Courfeyrac flinching back a little. Combeferre chuckles but Courfeyrac bursts out into a fit of laughter, catching Enjolras’ curious gaze. It’s a release of emotions, all the stress of the last month escaping in his all consuming, emotional laughter. Whether Enjolras survived or not, the release was inevitable. Combeferre finds himself hyper aware of how lucky they are that it can be this way and not by grieving and wonders if the new intensity of which they feel will ever fade.  
     
     “Fuck, E!” Courfeyrac says in between breaths. “I thought you were in some kind of excruciating pain or something.”  
     
     At that, Combeferre chuckles again, but he’s watching Enjolras. Enjolras, who has given them nothing but blank stares and tired blinks, now looks almost amused. He’s not sure why he’s surprised. Courfeyrac comes with only two reactions, amused or annoyed. There’s been no one like Courfeyrac to entertain Enjolras and if Enjolras is going to react to someone, it would be Courfeyrac.  
     
     Courfeyrac wipes the tear from his eyes and breathes out a shuddering breath in an attempt to calm himself. “You’re an asshole, you know?” He says to Enjolras. “You have us on the edge of our seats here and you just go and fuck around with us. Dick.”  
     
     He leans in, shaking his head, to kiss the side of his forehead with no bandages. In a motion much quicker than what they’d thought he’d be capable of, Enjolras pulls his hand from Combeferre to throw it around Courfeyrac’s neck. The irishman gladly sinks in to the hug, careful and perfectly aware of where exactly he’s putting his weight. Several minutes go by before the hand disappears from his neck to seek out Combeferre. The other boy does just the same, cautiously leaning into the best hug he could manage at such an awkward and precarious angle but he stays bent like that until Enjolras falls asleep because Enjolras is hugging him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	11. June 30

         Three weeks. Three weeks before Grantaire is allowed to see Enjolras. Three weeks before anyone is allowed to see Enjolras, outside of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his lucky emergency contacts. Joly and Cosette slide by, their hospital badges turning blind eyes. But for everyone else, three weeks is a cruel, cruel challenge. No one is happy with that timeline.

     Nearly everyone has been caught trying to sneak a visit. They’ve gotten pretty close and Éponine and Jehan even got in, but they didn’t realize he was moved to a new room. Éponine ninja rolled into a ninety-seven year old who wasn’t fairing well after a hip surgery but that is far better than the four year old Jehan walked in on. He then proceeded to sit on the roof until Courfeyrac warned him that security was getting antsy.

     “He broke his neck, Courf.” Jehan had said falling into his friends’ grasp. Courfeyrac couldn’t do anything but hold him close. “He broke his neck just like Enjolras but he was alone. Why is he alone? They shouldn’t have kicked me out because I would have read to him. I’ll read to him and he won’t be alone.”

     Courfeyrac had to retrieve him from the roof a second time the next day when Jehan snuck in to the room with a book tucked under his arm. The bed was empty. Jehan didn’t say anything then and once he was in the comforting arms of Cosette, Courfeyrac fled to Enjolras’ bed.   

     “I don’t understand!” Jehan is shouting now. The receptionist doesn’t flinch at the raised voice, strong and threatening. It’s not the most noise the group of friends have ever made and it certainly isn’t the most nerve-wrecking. She only pays attention when they are quiet. That’s when she gets suspicious.

     “There are a number of tests, scans, and questions that the doctors need to assess,” explains Joly with patience that only succeeds in further angering the other kids. “He has to be awake for the doctor to do this and he tires too easily for visitors.”

     “So we see him when he’s sleeping.” Feuilly compromises. It’s not a suggestion. Instead, the underlying tone implies a decision already made and danger in arguing against him. 

     “It’s not that easy-”

     “It is that fucking easy!” screams Jehan. His hand trembles in the air until he places them on the back of the chair to steady himself. Three weeks is too long.

     “Jehan,” says Joly quietly. The group falls silent and the receptionist glances up, content to see that they are mediating themselves again. “If it were up to me, I would agree. However, the doctor has decided it is best to keep visitors out for three weeks. There is nothing I can do but explain this again, no matter how much I wish it were different.”

     The poet looks away, shaking his head and clenching his jaw but he doesn’t argue. Feuilly takes a frustrated sip of his coffee to have something to keep him from yelling. Bahorel paces the length of the waiting room, Bossuet chews on his thumb nail, and Grantaire stares at the floor trying to remember how to breath steadily. Éponine is silent, leaning against the wall behind Joly. Cosette sits up a bit in her seat. Her voice is still new among the group and it brings everyone’s attention to her and her statement. “But he’s been waking up.”

     “Yes, frequently.” Joly says, elaborating for the others who turn to him with questions on the tip of their tongues. “He wakes up a few times every day but doesn’t stay up for long, usually only for a couple minutes. Which is why he isn’t allowed visitors yet but he is waking up."    

     “And that’s normal, right?” She asks. Éponine studies her face, suspicious of her concern for a boy she doesn’t know. The hair doesn’t rise on the back of her neck, though, and for that Cosette is lucky. She knows the girl stops by the room to bring homemade snacks for Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The few times Combeferre has left Enjolras, he’s gushed about it. Éponine’s glad he has things to look forward to and knows he doesn’t eat enough. Both he and Courfeyrac are becoming good friends with Cosette. Which makes sense. They don’t see many of their other friends. Still. Éponine doesn’t have to like the girl.

     Joly nods. “It’s a really good sign. He’ll start staying awake for longer periods of time. In fact he already has improved rapidly this week alone, and once he’s regained enough strength he’ll be allowed visitors again.”

     “Do they know anything yet?” Bossuet asks. He drops his thumb from his mouth but continues to pick at the fraying nail with his other finger. “Like does he have amnesia?”

     “He remembers Combeferre and Courf,” states Éponine. Grantaire glances up to her. That almost sounded hopeful. Guilt sinks into his stomach as he tries to remember the last time he talked to her. He feels sick with the realization that he’s labeled her a traitor as much as he has blamed Combeferre for Enjolras falling in the first place.

     “Yeah but what about his name and trigonometry and shit like that?” Blood starts to spread under Bossuet’s nail until Musichetta collects his hand in her own and wipes it off with her sleeve. Joly visibly cringes and pulls a bottle of hand sanitizer from his pocket and tosses it to his girlfriend. She indulges him but only accompanied with an eye roll.

     “Will he have to relearn how to write and stuff?” Feuilly asks, his anger fading into focus at the productive information to be learned. The only things they know about traumatic brain injuries are the kind of things you see in movies and whatever they’ve been brave enough to google.

     “There’s no paralysis, which is great. He will have to have intense rehab for his arm, which means he probably will have to learn how to write again because it’s his right hand. Outside of that, it’s hopefully as simple as regaining strength. Physically, at least.”

     “And not physically?” Marius asks.

     “Well, not much else is known right now.” Joly pauses. He looks off to the side, trying to determine how to phrase the next part. His friends wait patiently. The receptionist watches them, so completely intrigued that she’s put two callers on hold. She’ll have to ask again because there is no way they are only in their twenties. “There is some concern considering his speech and language.”   

     “What does that mean?” Grantaire speaks up for the first time since he arrived at the hospital. He’s been focusing on breathing too much to yell and Jehan has done well enough in that department for both of them. Louder he asks it again. “What does it mean, Joly?”     

     “It could mean many things. The symptoms can be anything from damage to his hearing to a difficulty focusing to an inability to comprehend what’s being said.” 

     “You’ve seen him.” Éponine says. “What do you think?”

     Joly takes for a moment, again, and it has everyone leaning in eagerly. “I would say that it’s not his hearing. He turns when Combeferre talks to him, meaning that he not only hears him but recognizes his voice. He hasn’t said anything yet, so I have a feeling his speech is definitely damaged. To what degree, is still too hard to declare.”

     The room is quiet and almost still outside of the small head nods and pursed lips. Bahorel stopped pacing as soon as Bossuet asked the question and stands next to Jehan fighting the panicky feeling rising in his chest. Feuilly shifts close enough to squeeze his hand. It’s brief and where it doesn’t settle the fear it certainly stops it from growing worse. Grantaire stands up to lean next to Éponine. He doesn’t say anything because the action is big enough. 

     “He’s alive.” Jehan says suddenly. Everyone turns to him.

     “He’s alive,” confirms Joly with a proud little smile for the strength of his friends.       

     “And we are here for him.” The poet announces. “We’re not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	12. July 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit shorter but the next one is really long and I'll update it soon!

         Courfeyrac is shouting, pointing a finger at the man with the stern mouth that is begging to be hit. He’s going to hit him one of these days. It’s a question of when, not if. Nurses and doctors turn. A few patients watch from their rooms if they are lucky enough to have a view of the show. Even now, they know that the group of kids are always entertaining. The glances they get aren’t surprised looks. Simple curiosity drawn by the screaming. It’s not the first time there's been screaming from them. At this point the noise has become associated with Enjolras’ stay. The interesting thing, though, is that instead of yelling at each other or a security guard or an angry doctor shouting down at a nurse, they are facing off with the police. “As his representative, I demand a copy of the report!”   

     “It is still an investigation.” The older detective states calmly. Far calmer than any one facing the Amis has a right of being, decides Bossuet. “One that may not lead to sufficient evidence.”   

     “Plus both you and your _client_ have a past of violence towards police officers,” adds the second detective with an arched eyebrow.    

     “Oh please!” Courfeyrac throws his hands out in exasperation. “Those are tiffs at worst.”       

     “At least on our side they have been,” says Bossuet in his deep, low voice that would unnerve most people. He’s standing between Courfeyrac and the detectives, leaning casually against the wall. His arms folded across his broad chest with every intention of appearing threatening while keeping an eye on his friend.       

     “Perhaps,” the younger man shoots a scathing look in Bossuet’s direction before turning back to Courfeyrac with an ease about him that is going to get him punched. Bossuet can’t wait to run into him outside of the hospital but until then, he won’t risk losing visiting rights by starting a fight. He won’t let Courfeyrac either, so he stays between them. “But no detective in his right mind would give it to you.”   

     “This is bull shit!” Courfeyrac spits. It’s far more inarticulate than he usually is but his anger is getting the best of him and it’s starting to become nearly impossible to understand him through his thickening accent. He bites his lip, then turns to his friend hopefully.    

     “ _Perhaps_ ,” Bossuet says with a quirk of his eyebrow. “It’s time we call Grantaire.”   

     Courfeyrac rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Grantaire.”   

     Shrugging, Bossuet pushes himself off the wall. He steps close to his friend, keeping his back to the detectives. Courfeyrac ducks his head to listen. “It’s solid leverage.”   

     “If we threat it and they call us on it,” worries Courfeyrac quietly.   

     “Then we follow through.” He stares at Courfeyrac, resolution in his set jaw and desire to set things right in his eyes. “I’m ready to be done fighting this shit.”   

     He nods, pulling his phone out. Bossuet steps back. “Excuse me officers,” says Courfeyrac. “I just have a phone call to make.”   

     “We don’t have time-”   

     “You’ve been holding out on us for weeks.” Bahorel speaks up from his spot behind Courfeyrac. “You can wait one fucking minute.”    

     The irishman flashes a grin over his shoulder as Grantaire picks up. “Hey, R. Can you get the photo ready?” There is a pause where the boy on the other end speaks. Whatever he says leaves Courfeyrac promising to do his best. Bossuet and Bahorel don’t have to bother venturing a guess to know Grantaire wants a guarantee that they’ll try everything before resorting to this. “That’s perfect, man. Thanks.”   

     “Get on with it, boy.” The older detective snaps when Courfeyrac hangs up. He knows suspicious foreboding when he senses it. “What’s the show about?”    

     “You see, _detective_. Our organization is nearly ten years old. We’ve picked up a few tricks over the years. My friend Grantaire, the one I just rang, is a pretty fantastic photographer. I mean, he’s a better painter in my opinion but still his photographs are pure art. And art is emotion.” He pauses for effect. “And my friend Grantaire, you know the fantastic photographer? Well he was at the protest in June.”   

     “So you have some pictures.” The younger man states dumbly, hoping to cut to the chase. He hates lawyers.   

     “You don’t have the number of the cop that hit him,” guesses the other detective. “If you did, you wouldn’t be bothering us for his name.”   

     “Fine deducing, sir. However, I think you should see this one photo my friend, you know the pretty fucking fantastic photographer one, took.” Courfeyrac opens the email and passes his phone to the man. As he stares at the picture, taking in the threatening baton and the raised arms and the distance to the ground, Courfeyrac continues. “Don’t you think, _detective_ , that this photo would be breathtaking on the front page? Or maybe the cover of _Time_ magazine.”   

     “You would sell a photo of your friend falling to his,” the young man bites his tongue against his next word when Bahorel steps forward, practically begging the him to continue. If he did, even Bossuet wouldn’t have stepped in.    

     Before he can regain his courage to continue, his partner speaks up. “What are you hoping for with this? For us to shiver in fear, giving you the file just to keep it under wraps? The protest was large enough to get solid coverage in the news. Enjolras has already been mentioned in the papers.”   

     “You’re right but he was merely mentioned. This is just an option. People tend to listen more when photos are included. Say we call New York City to arms in search for the man who attacked our unarmed friend. Ask the city to simply find out what you have supposedly failed to do so.”   

     “Which would be mentioned in the article, of course.” Bossuet says.    

     “We want answers, is all.” Courfeyrac pulls a saddened face, playing the part the detective would fear most; a sympathetic public enemy. Their organization is old enough and successful enough for them to have friends in high places. They’ve shown progress enough to be considered a dangerous opponent, clever and likable. The detective can’t be certain of the bluff. “To know the name of the man who nearly killed our friend. To hear his reason for the excessive force when Enjolras has only ever fought for the rights of the people.”   

     “They would say your friend is a rabble rouser who had it coming.”   

     “They would say the police force is protecting their own,” counters Bossuet.   

     The cop takes a calculated breath. He runs through the potential danger, should these kids follow through, and the backlash it may cause on the force. On his career. After a long look at the photo, seeing what Grantaire can’t stop seeing, he hands the phone back. “I’ll speak to my supervisor.”  

     The three boys walk them to the parking lot, but it feels closer to escorting them out. There’s no denying this is their turf. The receptionists chuckles and their waiting friends in the lobby stand up, making their presence known to the two detectives. It’s a clear statement to remind them it’s not just the two lawyers they are dealing with. After watching them leave, waiting until the black car leaves the parking lot, Courfeyrac immediately calls Grantaire to reassure him that Enjolras’ photo won’t be taken advantage of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	13. July 4, 2008

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's first Forth of July with the Amis and his first experience with drunkjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter is a flashback, hopefully it's not super ooc, I just always imagine drunkjolras getting really enthusiastic things like freedom and fireworks and going a little overboard on the American flag themed jell-o shots.

         Grantaire snuck outside for a cigarette. Jehan won’t let them smoke anything that’s not _medicinal_ in his house, unless it’s finals, but it was a brilliant summer afternoon so Grantaire didn’t mind. The sun was just starting to sink, leaving the balcony in that kind of summer haze just before sunset, and a cool breeze shift the many, many plants around him. If he closed his eyes and worked hard enough on it, he could imagine being in a small jungle. With one more drink and another breeze, his fingers would itch to imitate Henri Rousseau with chunky colors and fierce tigers. He brought the cigarette to his lips but dropped it and stumbled forward at a sudden shout.

     “Hey R!” He knows that voice. He loves that voice but he also checked the entire balcony, which was as ridiculously large and elaborate as Jehan’s apartment was, and there was no gorgeous blond revolutionary lingering in the shadows to chastise his bad habits. “Those aren’t good for you.”

     The voice echoed down from him. Grantaire looked up and to his horror, saw the feet dangling down from the roof. Enjolras ducked his head over the edge, golden curls falling into his face. He smiled, then waved. “Oh my god.” Grantaire whispered his heart stopping both at the sight of Enjolras sitting on the edge of a roof and the adorable smile he just received. Fear won and he shouted, “What are you doing?”

     “Waiting.”   

     “What?” He forgot about his burning cigarette before realizing how many fucking plants were there and quickly backtracked to stamp it out. It was their first July fourth together, Grantaire with the Amis, and it was the first time he’s seen Enjolras drink. He’s had a drink here and there at the occasional party but he’s never gotten drunk. Not on red, white, and blue Jell-o shots and something called a firecracker that even Grantaire struggled to get down. There had been a cold beer in his hand all night, convenient for the many speeches he’s slurred through. Of course it would lead up to him having to save a drunk Enjolras from the roof. Why not.    

     Grantaire ran to the roof door but found it locked. A quick glance up told him Enjolras was no longer looking at him and that was even more frightening.   

     “Enjolras! Hey, Enjolras! Look at me.” Grantaire’s never given him a command, not to his face at least, and there was a tinge of fear that it would backfire violently. It wouldn’t be the first time Enjolras had reacted poorly to authority. Or in Grantaire’s case, feigned authority. But Enjolras glanced down. It took him a minute to find the artist but when he did, his eyes lit up.    

     “Hey Grantaire!”  

     “Hey, okay. Let’s play a game. Do you want to play a game?”    

     “What?”

     Grantaire cursed himself. He’s drunk, not six but he picked that stupid track so ran with it. “A game for America.” 

     “America!” Enjolras cheered.    

     “Yes, America. Okay the game is that you have to stay completely still until I get up there, get it?” Grantaire called. When Enjolras didn’t respond, Grantaire shifted on his feet, trying to catch a glimpse of what has his attention. “Enjolras?”   

     Enjolras looked down again, smirking. “Is there more?”   

     “What?”    

     “Is there more to the game? Because I think I’m winning. It’s not very difficult.”  

     An easy laugh escaped Grantaire. “Yes. Yes! You’re doing great. So stay still and I’ll find a way up.”   

     “Try the fire escape. You have to climb the tree though.”

     “The tree?” Grantaire asked himself, suddenly concerned at how drunk Enjolras might actually be. But he looked around, spying the fire escape near the corner covered by a large dogwood, some how flourishing in the summer heat, and Enjolras’ boots next to the plant. The metal wasn’t rusted and didn’t creak when he stepped on it. It was nothing like the fire escape at Grantaire’s apartment. He didn’t trust it all. When he made it to the roof, Enjolras turned his head just enough to glance at Grantaire at the corner of his eye.

     “Did I win?"

     “Of course you did.” Grantaire smirked, standing just behind the other boy. Enjolras turned to face him and Grantaire flinched as he saw most of his weight was on the wrong side of the building. “Can I sit down? You’re making me a little nervous up there.”   

     “Sure. I think you won, too, R.” Enjolras said as he scooted over despite there being plenty of space for Grantaire to sit down.

     The blond swings his feet in the air, toes curling and uncurling as the breeze blew around him. Grantaire caught a whiff of whatever magical smell seemed to always follow Enjolras and he fought against the urge to lean in to him in a creepy stalker way. Instead, he looked around at the truly marvelous skyline, keeping his hand just behind Enjolras’ arm in case the boy slipped. “What are you doing up here?”

     “Getting ready for the fireworks.”

     “I think we have to wait until the sun goes down first.”

     “We do,” confirmed Enjolras, nodding at Grantaire.

     “So we have at least an hour. Do you want to go back inside with everyone else?”

     “No. I want a good seat.”

     “Well do you mind if I wait here with you, then?” Grantaire asked. “I want a good seat too.”

     “Not at all.” Enjolras shifted again. The sudden movement scared Grantaire and he reached out and grabbed a handful of the back of Enjolras’ thin shirt. When the other boy didn’t seem to notice, he kept it there. It wouldn’t do much if he actually fell but it made Grantaire feel better. Especially because Enjolras’ speech was slightly slurred, his eyes bright, and his cheeks flushed. Despite drinking half of what Grantaire had that night, he was easily the more inebriated of the two. “I love fireworks,” gushed Enjolras.

     “Bahorel told me this was your favorite holiday.”

     “It’s not. No, I love Thanksgiving more. You know, everyone just gets together for no other reason than to just be together and that’s amazing. But Independence Day is great, too. It’s probably my second favorite.” He said as if worried he offended Grantaire. “I love America, even though I’m French and there are so many problems here. Once they’re fixed, though, once people realize it, it’ll get better.”

     Grantaire knitted his brow and with every desire to avoid an argument he ignored the optimistic faith in a spiraling country. So instead, he asked, “You’re French?”

     The blond nodded enthusiastically. “I love France.”   

     “I know you do but I didn't know you were French.”

     “I was born there. My mom was French. I speak french. My dad’s American though.”

     “I know you speak french. I just assumed you learned it in that fancy private school you went to.”

     “My mom was French.” Enjolras repeated, shaking his head. He dropped his gaze from the skyline to Grantaire’s arm holding his shirt. He traced the spiraling lines of black tattoos and carefully written words against the tan skin. Grantaire watched the way those blue eyes followed his finger, trying not to shiver under his careful examination. “I have a tattoo.” The blond said suddenly. “Wanna see it? Well I have two. You wanna see them?” He started trying to pull up his shirt as he explained. “They’re both French. The first one I got is french because I love France and I’m French and my mom’s dead so I got another French one for her because she was French and she loved France too. She loved France more than I do.”

     “Sure but maybe we should get off the roof first?” Grantaire suggested, having to pass over the mom comment for the time, tightening his grip on Enjolras’ t-shirt which only made it harder for the blond and he moved more. He was so scared of losing his grip on Enjolras that even the flash of the golden skin wasn’t enough to deter him.

     “And lose our seats? Not worth the risk! Here, look. I can take off my shirt.”

     “Enjolras!” The panicked shout forced them both still. Grantaire glanced over his shoulder, one hand on the edge of the roof and the other still clinging to Enjolras’ shirt, to see Combeferre running towards them. Relief flooded him, despite how bad this probably looked to the only person Grantaire was still afraid of in the group. To see his boyfriend perched on the edge of the building, drunk and nearly half-naked with someone like Grantaire must be concerning to say the least and the amused, somewhat grateful glance from Combeferre was the exact opposite of what he expected.  

     “Hey, Ferre!” Enjolras shouted, his smile grew. The arm he managed to get out of his sleeve waved him over. “I’m showing Grantaire my tattoos. You should show him yours.”

     Combeferre came behind Enjolras, wrapping a strong arm around his waist with ease that shot a pang of envy through Grantaire’s chest. He pulled his own hand away, a bit reluctant and tried not to focus on the way Enjolras sunk against Combeferre’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I thought we talked about the roof, Enjolras.”

     “We have the same one.” Enjolras told Grantaire, seeming not to notice the way Combeferre was putting his shirt back on. “We planned it. Ferre’s from France, too. Our mom’s knew each other.”

     “What did we say about the roof, Enjolras?” Combeferre asked sternly, raising an eyebrow in the way that caused Grantaire to duck his head and he’s not even the person he’s questioning.

     Enjolras ducked his head once realizing he’s in trouble. He recites, “We don’t come up here by ourselves when we’ve been drinking.”

     “We don’t come up here by ourselves.” Combeferre nodded. “Next time, come get me.”

     “But I was here with Grantaire!” Enjolras said suddenly, with a wide smile.

     “The whole time?”

     “No.” Enjolras answered slowly, as if having to think about it. “No he came up later when he realized what great seats they were.” He tried to turn to face Combeferre. At the shift, Grantaire threw his hand out, ready to catch him, but Combeferre had a strong hold on the blond and instead of letting him turn around, he moved his head over Enjolras’ shoulder so he could see him better. “Sorry Ferre.”

     “That’s alright.” He promised. “You just scared me.”

     “Sorry.”

     “That’s alright,” Combeferre chuckled, “but we don’t come up here by ourselves and we sit by the fire escape, don’t we?”

     Enjolras thought for a moment before disagreeing. “This spot is better, Ferre.”

     “I think that building is going to be in the way, though.” Grantaire said, feigning concern that earned him another grateful smile from Combeferre.

     “What building?”

     “That one,” he pointed in a vague direction.

     “Come on, E. We sit by the fire escape because it’s safer and it has a better view of the fireworks.” Combeferre explained. “Win-win.”

     “Right. Okay,” said Enjolras as he started to move again. “Come on, R.” He paused to lean towards Grantaire. “It’s safer.”

     Grantaire laughed and agreed, promising he was coming, while Combeferre pulled Enjolras back with surprising strength that only made Grantaire more nervous around the man. Give him a loud, golden tongued Apollo with a penchant for violent upheavals and Grantaire’s smitten but the clever philosophy student continued to bewilder him. Especially when he reached out a hand to help him over once Enjolras was safely on the ground. He shouldn’t be that kind to someone who does nothing to hide his infatuation towards his boyfriend. Still he get’s a warm smile, slightly exasperated but mostly amused, all the while keeping his cautious hold on Enjolras.   

     “We do this every year.” He explained to Grantaire as he helped Enjolras sit on the roof between the fire escape railings with his feet on the first step, staying behind him to keep his arm around the boy’s waist. Eventually everyone else joined them, settling on either side of Enjolras in a way that only reinforced Combeferre’s comment. After the fireworks, Enjolras stood up to chant _USA_ down at the balconies below. His foot slipped and he panicked, but Combeferre’s gripped tightened, pulling him back with practiced ease.   

     “Woah.” Enjolras looked around, wide-eyed.

     His friend raised his eyebrows as if to say, _see, you have to be careful_. “I’ve got you.”

     “Thanks, Ferre.”

     Grantaire looked away. Next to him Jehan watched the two boys with an adoring smile before telling his friend, “This happens every year.”

     “It’s a bit unnerving.” Grantaire confessed. Jehan nodded but before he could say more, the artist finally asked him, “How long have they been together?”

     “Combeferre and Enjolras?”

     “Yeah. They really seem to love each other.” The words caught in his throat.

     Jehan tilted his head to the side, staring at Grantaire with a knowing smile that made him self-conscious. “They’ve been best friends for about fifteen years now, I think.”

     “Best friends?” He repeated slowly.

     “Best friends.”

     “Did you think they were dating?” Bossuet asked from the other side of Jehan. He leaned a little too far out for Joly to be comfortable and the hand on his arm tightened. Grantaire tried to laugh it off but it came off as an awkward cough. “It’s okay. We all have at one point or another.”

     “Unfortunately for them Combeferre’s not gay.” Jehan said with a sigh.        

     “And us!” Courfeyrac shouted from the other side of Enjolras. He emphasized it with a slap to Combeferre’s ass. Combeferre only shook his head and rolled his eyes, laughing softly as he readjusted his grip on Enjolras. The blond had started to lean heavier into his chest, feeling the pull of sleep from the alcohol. Grantaire looked down to the street to bite back his growing, hopeful smile. The expression felt strange on his face, strange and unused.        

     “Hey, Combeferre.” Jehan called softly, studying the way Combeferre held on to Enjolras. “I know I locked the door this time.” He said, but didn’t seem surprised Enjolras made it up here despite it.  

     “I even put a tree in front of the fire escape,” added Musichetta.   

     Combeferre smiled. “We just love the roof, don’t we Enjolras?”   

     “It’s the best seat, Ferre.” Agreed the blond quietly, dropping his head to Combeferre’s shoulder.  

     “Next year, we’ll get our own fireworks.” Feuilly decided. “That way, we can all come up here earlier and it’ll kill time he spends on the fucking edge.”  

     Bahorel punched his friend excitedly in the arm. “I know a guy!”  
      
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
     The knock echoes in the apartment and Grantaire can’t remember it ever being so quiet. He decides he doesn’t like it. Making a note to find a roommate or buy some speakers to fill the dreadful silence, he rolls over and tucks the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He lives in a studio apartment and has forty-three dollars in his bank account. He’ll figure something else out. Maybe he’ll get a bird if the bird is free and doesn't have to eat. The knock sounds again. He ignores it. The door is locked because there is no one he wants to see that could be knocking. Not today.   

     “One way or another we are coming in!” shouts Bahorel. Grantaire rolls his eyes, then realizes it’s Bahorel. Bahorel who basically just promised he’d be more than happy to resort to breaking down the door. It wouldn’t be the first time.   

     He stumbles off the bed, shouting, “I’m coming!” The blanket tangles between his legs and he trips to the floor. “I’m coming!”   

     When he swings open the door Feuilly staggers in caught off guard, the bobby pin still in the lock. The grin on Bahorel’s face is wide and almost infectious, if Grantaire wasn’t prepared to sit in his dark room all day by himself. Feuilly picking the lock to his door would be endearing and worrisome if he wasn’t planning on drinking enough to pass out before the fireworks started. The other two boys ignore the frown on their friends’ face.   

     “Go put some pants on,” says Feuilly eagerly.    

     “We are going to shoot fireworks off in the hospital parking lot to celebrate Enjolras waking up.” Bahorel lifts up the box in his hands full of fireworks. The artist glares at them.    

     “We’re meeting the others there.”   

     “This is only my box. Musichetta and Jehan are both bringing boxes too.”    

     “We’re obligated to inform you it’s probably not legal.”   

     “But you don’t really have a choice.”   

     “It’s definitely not legal.”   

     “And you definitely don’t have a choice.”   

     “Get dressed.” Feuilly demands. Grantaire makes a show of rolling his eyes but when he turns around he can’t bite back the growing grin and he gives up, rushing to find paint-free clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	14. July 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They get the police file and it leads to a chat.

         Enjolras is awake. He’s leaning against Combeferre on the bed but he’s fading fast. He’s been awake for nearly fifteen minutes now, a new record for him, and he’s said something that sounds like _no_ and _Ferre_ , which is a new feat as well. His blinks are growing longer, though, and his hand in Combeferre’s tightens every so often as he fights sleep with such ferocity it leaves his friends suppressing their laughter. Combeferre presses his chin against his friend’s forehead, then kisses his temple. From the couch on the other side of the bed, Courfeyrac looks up when Combeferre’s reading pauses, catches the gesture, and smiles. He folds the file in his hands and leans his head back. Closing his eyes, he listens to the steady rhythm of Combeferre’s reading picking back up. It’s some philosophy book, ancient words echoing in tune with the familiar heart monitor. Fatigue creeping in weighs down his bones, leaving his muscles heavy. The combination is enough for him to feel the tug of sleep himself.   

     Forcing himself up, he opens his eyes to see Enjolras shifting on the bed. The blond makes a frustrated sound as he fights the drugs, the exhaustion, and the awkward angle. Courfeyrac laughs and it brings Combeferre’s attention away from their friend for a moment. “He’s trying to curl into you.”   

     On the bed, Combeferre smiles and nods. He glances at Enjolras, endearingly, as the boy manages to settle against his shoulder the way he wanted to with a content sigh. Looking back to Courfeyrac, he speaks softly. “I’m glad he has the neck brace off.”   

     “It’s easier to believe he’ll be alright.” Courfeyrac agrees. He cocks his head to catch Enjolras’ eye, winking in response to the adorable sleepy way Enjolras crinkles his nose at him. “God I’m so happy he’s awake.”   

     Combeferre laughs. It startles Enjolras enough to have him try to lift his head but he doesn't manage more than a quick glance up before giving up. Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows. “I hope you are.”   

     “Shut up, Ferre.” He rolls his eyes but his smile remains. “You know what I mean.”   

     “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”   

     They grow quiet. Enjolras’ blinks grow longer. “Was there,” Courfeyrac starts to ask but has to clear his throat. “Was there ever a moment when, you know, you thought he wasn’t,” his words trail off with a wave of his hand and the weight of tears threatening. “He wasn’t going to be alright?”   

     Combeferre looks up and locks eyes with his friend. “No. You?”   

     “Of course not.” Courfeyrac answers quickly. “It’s Enjolras.”   

     They both nod, happy with the other’s faith and their willingness to lie. Combeferre goes back to reading. Courfeyrac closes his eyes again. It almost feels normal. Like they could be home. It feels like a Sunday afternoon where they would lie content and full from the big brunch in a suddenly quiet apartment after their friends return home to prepare for the week. Combeferre reading for his class out loud to encourage an exhausted Enjolras to sleep because Enjolras is always exhausted on Sundays. He always falls asleep, not being able to fight the comforting, steady sound that would fill the apartment. Courfeyrac would chuckle and make coffee for himself and Combeferre, who undoubtedly would have Enjolras’ head on his shoulder or in his lap, before settling down to read up on whatever case he’s working on at the time. He dozes off to the comforting sound of his friend’s voice and the soft little sniffles Enjolras makes as he’s falling asleep because although he can’t really talk his sleepy sounds are still the same, imagining the way the sun comes through their living room window and hits the back of his favorite old armchair.     

     He suddenly jolts awake to Combeferre calling his name. “Sorry! Sorry,” whispers Combeferre. “I’m sorry.”   

     “What? No. You’re fine.” Courfeyrac runs a hand over his face. “What’s going on?”   

     “I didn’t want to wake you up but I need your help.”   

     “It’s fine,” he says again as he stands up. “What’s up?”   

     “He has my hand. I can’t get the mask on.” He nods towards Enjolras clinging to his fingers. The more aware the blond becomes, the more confused he gets and the more he relies on his friends. Even letting go of his hand could cause him to wake up in a panic. Courfeyrac moves with quick, familiar actions and slips the oxygen mask over his friend’s face, having to work around Combeferre and the close position Enjolras curled himself into because he’s certainly not going to force them apart. His right arm is still strapped to his chest, and will be until after his last surgery, but his entire left side is pressed against Combeferre, his left hand holding on to Combeferres’ hand across his chest. “Thanks, Courf.”   

     “No problem.” Courfeyrac plops down on the couch, rubbing a hand across his face a second time. Fighting a yawn, he looks up to Combeferre who kisses Enjolras again before picking up his book. It isn’t particularly dangerous for Enjolras to go without the oxygen mask. Combeferre shouldn’t have been so quick to want to put it back on. They both know he hates it so much that it can wake him up if he’s just fallen asleep. “How long was I asleep?”   

     “Almost forty-five minutes,” answers Combeferre with a regretful smile. “Sorry for waking you up.”   

     “Wow, really?” Suddenly more awake, as if knowing how long he slept changes how refreshed he feels, he sits up. Combeferre nods. His haste to get the mask on makes more sense. He waited as long as he could. “I hate those dreamless naps.”   

     Combeferre raises his eyebrows, turning to Enjolras, but doesn’t comment on it. Courfeyrac feels guilty. He still has to wake his friend from the nightmares when his cries get too disturbing or the tears too thick for him to handle watching. Before he can apologize, Combeferre looks at him and determinedly changes the topic. “Is that the police file?”   

     “Yep.” Gratitude replaces the remorse and Courfeyrac moves forward with new energy. He picks up the file, riffling through the thin pages he has already memorized. The detectives gave them the bare minimum, which was to be expected, but they have a name and that’s all they wanted. The things Les Amis can do with a name is frightening.   

     “Anything interesting?” Combeferre asks dryly.   

     “He lives seven blocks from us.”   

     Thought flashes behind Combeferre’s glasses. “Really?”   

     “Yep.”   

     “We live in a pretty shitty neighborhood.”   

     “We do.” Courfeyrac nods. “And he lives seven blocks from us. He lives in a pretty shitty neighborhood too.”   

     “How old is he?”   

     “Twenty-eight next month. He and his high school sweetheart just set a date for their wedding. February. Feels a little cliché if you ask me.” He adds with an unimpressed shrug. “You’d never guess their theme.”   

     “Winter Wonderland.” Combeferre answers immediately and distractedly.   

     “See. It’s totally overdone.”   

     Combeferre is quiet for a minute before looking to Courfeyrac. “Is it bad that I still want to push him out of a window?”   

     “That's civil compared to what I was thinking,” laughs Courfeyrac bitterly. “I want his whole family to watch.”   

     “Good.” Combeferre’s sigh ends with a short laugh. “That makes me feel better.”   

     “On that note, though, do you think he's earned himself a chat with us?”   

     “A chat or a _chat_?” He says the latter with raised eyebrows.    

     “Well. You know what I'd like to do but for the sake of keeping Enjolras' name clear, for right now, at least, just a chat.”   

     Combeferre nods, then looks at Enjolras sleeping against his shoulder. He presses his cheek against the soft blond hair as he thinks. “I want you to lead it,” he says with the restraint of personal desire being forced out in exchange for a professional façade.   

     “Of course.”   

     “Bring Bossuet. He's almost a lawyer so you're not at risk in case the guy lashes out. Feuilly and Jehan, too. They should be composed enough to follow your lead but capable if needed.” Courfeyrac stands up, tucking the file under his arm and smirking at his friend. “What?”   

     “You sound like Enjolras, is all. It’s weird, but oddly suiting.” He shrugs, leaving the room after a quick kiss to the top of Enjolras’ head and a promise to behave. Combeferre considers his words for a moment before laughing and shaking his head in the ridiculous notion. He sinks in the bed as best as he can and picks up his book, pretending he’s on their couch, the comfortable weight of his best friend against him and the sun setting just outside their window like it does in the late afternoons.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Bahorel comes home from work reeking of sweat and plastic, the gym following him as he moves about the room. Despite the smell being thick enough to see, he simply changes into partially cleaner shorts and plops down on the couch next to his roommate. The cushions shift dramatically under his weight but Feuilly’s used to it. He simply moves closer to the arm and it works to get him farther away from the smell although it’s strong enough in this heat to fill the entire room. Eventually, they both grow used to it.   

     They don’t talk as the baseball game inches into the last few innings. Bahorel watches with a focus he rarely shows anywhere else, slowly making his way through a case of beers, while Feuilly reads on the commercial breaks. It’s companionable and familiar, a level of friendship neither have experienced before they met the other. Their nights often end like this, a baseball game and a few beers, easy chatter and sighs of relief after a busy day. Both men work two jobs, Bahorel less hours than Feuilly as his boxing career usually leads to fewer but larger paydays, and the simple nights put a grateful end to the taxing effort just to pay rent.    

     When the game ends, the Yankees lose. Feuilly pouts but Bahorel cheers and it leads to a discussion against the aging offense and the injury prone superstars. It’s relatively civil, Bahorel only kicking the coffee table in his frustration once, and when it eventually dies down the apartment falls into another calm quiet as the after game talk shows start.       

     “Hey,” Bahorel asks suddenly, his head heavy against the back of the couch. His friend looks up from the book in his lap. “The meeting was today.”   

     “What meeting?”   

     “The meeting with the asshole who tried to kill E.” Bahorel explains. “How did it go? Do Grantaire and I get to meet him? And by meet I mean kill.”   

     “I don’t know. I doubt it.” Feuilly shakes his head, then shrugs. “Did you know he’s only two years older than you? The guy’s just a kid.”   

     “So? Enjolras is two years younger than me. He’s a kid.”   

     “Exactly.” He agrees, dropping his gaze back to his book.

     "Wait. What? Why can't we fuck him up?"

     “The whole eye for an eye thing and the world goes blind. I don't think Courf will want to bring that on Enjolras' name.”   

     “That’s bullshit.” Bahorel shouts and Feuilly looks up, studying the way his friend’s neck grows red with anger. “That’s fucking bullshit, Feuilly. I wanna meet this guy. I wanna to kick his ass and disappear. I want to send him to the hospital and not pay for it.” He stands up, rage boil into action. “I want him to be so fucked up that every time he struggles to talk, struggles to tie his fucking shoes, every time he cries at night for the life he used to have he thinks of Enjolras!”   

     Feuilly closes his book, leaning back to look at his friend with sympathy. “Normally, I would be charging in behind you, Bahorel. But this is different. This is long term and we don’t have any say in what happens. This is Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s decision.”   

     “We don’t have any say?” He shouts.   

     “No.”   

     “How the fuck can you say that? Enjolras can’t fucking do it so we will! We’ll take care of him. Don’t lie, Feuilly, you know it’s exactly what Enjolras would do. He’d be the first one through the asshole’s door!”   

     “Which is exactly why Combeferre and Courfeyrac won’t let us do it.” Feuilly speaks in an even tone but he stands up to face Bahorel. “We’ve learned the realities of protesting and they won’t let us learn the realities of prison.”       

     “Prison?” Bahorel spits.   

     “Yeah, if you go after the guy now you’ll be arrested for assault and it would go to trial.” His friend rolls his eyes but Feuilly continues. “For right now, we all have to be here for Enjolras and you can’t do that from behind bars. Think about how he would feel to hear you got six months for beating up the young cop who got scared during a protest and overreacted.”   

     Bahorel stares at him for a long moment before sinking into the couch. The redheaded man nods, sitting next to his friend who mumbles angrily under his breath for several minutes. He falls quiet after his initial anger fades and shifts his head on the cushion. “I don’t like it.”   

     “I don’t either but I get it.”   

     “Yeah, yeah I do too.” He admits quietly, looking down to his hands. “If Enjolras tells us to, when he can and all, can we?”   

     “Can we what?”   

     “Break the guy’s face?”   

     “Absolutely.” Feuilly grins, nodding short and affirmative before going back to his book because the corner of Bahorel’s mouth twists up in a brief smile. "Go shower." He demands without looking up. "We'll get up early tomorrow to stop by the hospital before work."

     Bahorel chuckles, drowning the last of his beer. He stands up and before disappearing to shower, he cuffs Feuilly across the head to say how grateful he is for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	15. July 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets to see Enjolras

         Feuilly, Bahorel, and Musichetta have started picking up more shifts, working longer hours. Bossuet spends more time at the office and Jehan back in his shop. The time spent at the hospital is far less frequent, now that they have been promised and promised again that they won’t see Enjolras until the twenty-first, an entire month after he first woke up. It’s marked on everyone’s calendar. There’s a countdown on most phones. Jehan has written it on his hand so many times it’s starting to look like just another tattoo. Éponine’s not convinced it isn’t yet.   

     They still come by, out of habit, loyalty, and optimism. They still pester nurses and play in the children’s ward but it’s Grantaire that comes every day as if nothing had changed because he still kind of believes that nothing has changed. He hasn’t seen Enjolras. He can’t bring himself to get hopeful that Enjolras is alive and awake, not when the last time he saw him there was a plastic tube shoved down his throat that kept him breathing and the last time Enjolras was alive and awake he was falling off a fucking statute. Enjolras isn’t going to wake up and be fine. Things like that don’t happen. Grantaire knows this better than most so he comes everyday because it may be the last day he gets a chance to see Enjolras.    

     Some days he draws. Some days he plays games on his phone and some times he chats with the receptionist who isn’t lovely and doesn’t usually respond but she lets him sit there and watch her play solitaire when things are slow because she likes the Amis, she likes Enjolras. Mostly, however, he sits and stares at his hands, trying to breath. Steady breathing like normal people do under normal circumstances. Not the panicked, rapid kind of breathing he’s gotten used to. He tries to breath and picture Enjolras silent. All he sees is his Apollo with his tongue cut out in punishment.    

     Today is one of those days where he thinks he’ll pass out and get himself admitted, which wouldn’t be the worse scenario. He’d be closer to Enjolras. May even manage to sneak in but Éponine would worry and Jehan would have to take off work. He sits up to take a deep breath and jumps at seeing Combeferre so close so suddenly. The man’s brow is knit in concern, head cocked to the side. Grantaire shakes the sight of his Apollo spitting up blood and forces himself to smile. It earns him a skeptical look but Combeferre sits back on his heels.   

     “Are you alright?” He asks and it doesn’t sound like it’s his first time asking. Maybe he didn’t just appear in front of him.   

     “Swell,” says Grantaire and he immediately looks down at the floor because he still sounds like an asshole when talking to Combeferre. He still blames him. Which is stupid and irrational and he tries to smile at Combeferre but it feels more like a grimace.   

     “Good.” Combeferre responds simply. “I’m going for a walk. Want to join?”   

     “Is it a walk to Enjolras’ room?”    

     “I was thinking more about outside.”   

     He considers rolling his eyes and sinking back into the chair petulantly but Combeferre looks tired and he’s trying not to hate his best friend’s new boyfriend for something he shouldn’t hate him for anyway. Grantaire shrugs. It’s not much but it’s not the worst way he could have responded. Combeferre takes it and they walk out together without a word. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Grantaire pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He offers one to Combeferre and tries to hide his surprise when the man gratefully accepts. Combeferre lights it with a practiced hand and exhales a long smoke of relief.   

     “I didn’t know you smoked.”   

     “I don’t often.” There is a pause while Combeferre takes another long drag. “Never picked it up as a habit but they were nice during finals.”   

     Grantaire nods his understanding but leaves it at that. They are quiet as Combeferre leads them to a small bench facing an elementary school. It’s empty and desolate in the summer. Grantaire doesn’t like it but the trees are full and the bushes are thick around them. It’s almost easy to forget why they are there, if he tries hard enough. When they sit down, there’s a respectful distance between the two. It’s pleasant at first. The birds are close enough and loud enough to nearly drown out the street on the other side of the hospital. It’s significantly cooler in the shade and Grantaire takes a deep breath of the summer breeze. A moment passes and suddenly it feels too quiet. It’s not long until the silence stretches just past uncomfortable. Grantaire strikes another cigarette just to have something to do with his hands. He offers one to Combeferre but he politely declines, _I don’t want to smell like smoke_ , and they fall silent again.   

     He can’t remember ever feeling unsure in Combeferre’s company. They weren’t close before but it’s never been uncomfortable, it’s never been tense. Out of the trio, the leaders of their mismatched gang of misfits, Courfeyrac is the closest to the artist but even then it’s a relationship that started on poor decisions and alcohol drenched nights that bled into their general fight to survive after college. Combeferre is Enjolras’. Combeferre is an untouchable entity that is kept safe with Enjolras in Enjolras’ world. Not for Grantaire. And now Combeferre is partly Éponines’ too and Grantaire has always been Éponines’ so he’s not sure where he fits. He’s finding it to be a lonely, unsettling feeling. Catching himself in a spiral and feeling the tension between them thicken, he’s determined to break it. He aims for a light tone, maybe even a joke but his voice cracks around the emotion. “It sucks that we can’t see him yet.” He laughs a bitter, painful laugh. “It feels cruel.”   

     “Well,” Combeferre runs a hand through his hair as he responds. “I kind of understand the doctors’ concern.”   

     “Really?” Despite himself, Grantaires’ breath hitches and his eyes widen. “He’s that-”   

     “You guys set off fireworks in a hospital parking lot.” Combeferre interrupts with a laugh. He leans back on the bench and looks at Grantaire with an amused smile and a quirked eyebrow.    

     “Oh. That. Yeah.” Grantaire laughs, ducking his head a little. “When you put it like that, it makes sense.”     

     “Yeah.” His tone is easy. “I thought it was great, for what it’s worth.”   

     Grantaire laughs, relaxing into the bench with a smile. “Did he?”   

     He immediately regrets the question. Combeferre sobers a little and looks at his bitten down thumb nail before responding. “I know he heard them but I don’t know if he understood what they were.”   

     “Oh.”   

     “I tried explaining it to him.” He adds with a defeated shrug.    

     They fall quiet and this time Grantaire doesn’t mind it so much. Even the birds add to the silence. When his cigarette burns out, forgotten in his hands, Grantaire clears his throat. It takes courage to bring up the question and he still struggles on the words. “Will he ever be, you know?”   

     Combeferre looks over to him but doesn’t finish his question. Perhaps with his best friend no longer capable of speaking he doesn’t want to steal other people’s words. Or he just doesn’t want to make assumptions. Grantaire thinks it’s the former. It sounds more poetic.    

     “Normal.” It comes out as a hushed squeak. “Will he ever be normal? Back to normal? Like he was before. Before the fall. You know, will he be okay again?”   

     “Maybe.” Combeferre shrugs. “It could be a few months or a few years. It’s hard to tell right now.”   

     “Well, no matter, what I’ll be here,” Grantaire promises determinedly.    

     “At the hospital?”   

     “What? No. Here. With Enjolras and you and Courfeyrac. I can help. For as long as it takes just let me know what to do or where to be. And I won’t drink so you don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to worry about me because you can trust me because I can help.”   

     Combeferre looks at him, slightly perplexed at the confession but the corner of his mouth turns up into a slow smile. “Thanks. That means a lot. To Enjolras. It’ll mean a lot to him.” Grantaire gives him a short and awkward nod before turning to look the paint stained hands in his lap. He ignores the way Combeferre rubs a hand over his face and sighs when he replaces his glasses. “Wanna see him?”   

     His head snaps up. “What?”   

     “Enjolras. Wanna see him?”   

     “We aren’t allowed to.”   

     “You’re going to listen to the rules now?” Combeferre asks with a skeptical smile.   

     “This isn’t some cruel joke, right?”   

     He laughs. “No. Come on. He’ll be happy to see you.”   

     The walk back to the hospital is difficult for Grantaire, who has to keep his strides carefully measured to avoid sprinting ahead of Combeferre. He regrets his second cigarette, smelling the smoke on himself. They make it to the intensive care unit without an incident despite Grantaire looking like a meth addict about to get his next fix. A nurse is leaving the room when they walk up. She must know Combeferre because she smiles and she must know about the no visitors rule because she raises her eyebrows at Grantaire.   

     “This is Enjolras’ boyfriend.” Combeferre says in a way of explaining. Softer, he leans in and adds, “It’s been really hard for him. Just a quick visit?”   

     The nurse studies Grantaire and he must look the pathetic part well enough because she smiles sadly at him before granting Combeferre permission with a quiet _I don’t know anything_ and a wink.    

     The room is smaller, Grantaire notices first. Besides that, the only thing that is really different is that the breathing tube has been replaced with an oxygen mask. Other than that Enjolras still looks pale. His arm is still strapped to his chest. He still looks too close to death. Grantaire forces himself to breath because Enjolras is alive, he’s been waking up, and they wouldn’t lie about that. Combeferre moves in to the room with the ease that comes with familiarity and routine, taking the right side of Enjolras’ bed so Grantaire can hold his hand but the artist lingers by the door, cautious in his uncertainty.   

     Courfeyrac is sitting at the foot of the bed. One of Enjolras’ legs is bent casually against the railing so he can fit. His bored glance of expecting another nurse grows into a bright grin at the sight of Grantaire.    

     “Hey, E.” Courfeyrac calls as he turns back to the blond. He drops the book he was reading and moves up the bed to carefully remove the mask. “Look who's here.”   

     Enjolras blinks a few times once the straps are gone. After his vision clears to the best it usually does and Courfeyrac comes into view he smiles, pushing sleep aside and tapping his finger a few times against his friends’ arm in his way of saying hello. Courfeyrac beams, pressing a kiss to his forehead, then shifts back to give Grantaire the opportunity to step forward. The artist doesn’t move. His breathing is too quick and the smoke is too strong. Why is he here? He can see how thick it is, he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be allowed here. Enjolras is smiling but it’s not real. He has to leave because this is wrong and if it’s a nightmare it will get worse. Enjolras will stop breathing or start coughing up blood. He drank too much and he’ll wake up, throw up, then drink some more so he can get the smell of blood off his mind.   

     “Grantaire?” Courfeyrac is calling. He’s close enough to grab Grantaire’s hand if he leans over the edge of the bed. “Are you alright?”   

     He looks at his friend but doesn’t respond. There are tears in his eyes and he doesn’t let go of Courfeyrac’s hand.   

     “He can’t determine who you are from that far away,” explains Combeferre softly. Enjolras is looking at Combeferre, studying the way his mouth moves around the words with narrow eyes but fleeting focus. “His sight’s not very clear yet. Come sit down.”   

     It’s an order, Grantaire can understand one when he hears it and he’s grateful. He nods, not looking at him but watching the way Enjolras rubs his eye with his hand. He moves slowly, cautiously as if approaching an animal or a mirage, waiting for it to flee or fade. Or spit up blood. But when he sits on the chair next to Enjolras’ bed, the blond looks over to him. He blinks forcibly, fighting the haze in his vision, before his eyes light up. Grantaire feels the tears slipping down his face as he reaches out, tentatively at first, to hold Enjolras’ hand. The soft, warm skin is interrupted by the tape holding his IV in and when Enjolras’ fingers wrap around Grantaire’s hand, the artist tightens his hold. Enjolras imitates him with a smile. Grantaire laughs, a sharp sound of relief that brings a satisfied smile to Combeferres’ face and a warm one to Courfeyracs’. The blond drops his head back to the pillow, smiling at Grantaire.   

     “He’s been up for a while.” Courfeyrac warns Grantaire. “Meaning he’ll probably fall asleep pretty soon.”   

     Grantaire nods, still not looking away from Enjolras whose attention has dropped to scratch a blunt nail across the paint stains on his hand. His tears start falling harder now, his breath hitches. It’s only a few seconds before he’s sobbing, not completely covering his eyes with his other hand because he still needs to see Enjolras’ blue eyes and the way he smiles. He’s shaking, tears dripping off his cheeks, his nose running a little now and surely he’s going to get kicked out. Enjolras is looking at him, concern in the creases around his eyes as he tries to understand. A glance to Combeferre, who’s smiling a bit at Grantaire, tells him there’s nothing terribly wrong or else he would be reacting too.    

     “Can I hug him?” Grantaire chokes out. “Please? Please can I hug him?”   

     “Of course.” Before Courfeyrac is done answering, Grantaire is lunging on to the bed to collect Enjolras in his arms. Used to Courfeyracs’ affections, Enjolras isn’t at all taken back by the sudden movement even though Combeferre flinches. Grantaire buries his face in Enjolras neck, wrapping his arms around the blonds’ shoulders, and his cries grow more out of control. Enjolras simply moves into the hug, eventually falling asleep against Grantaires’ scruffy cheek and his hand holding on to the back of his t-shirt when the cries slow. Still, Grantaire doesn’t let go. He can’t let go, not when he could feel Enjolras’ breath against his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	16. July 20

         He’s saying something and Enjolras definitely wants to understand because he thinks there is a question in those words but he can’t be sure. The sound just barely reaches his ears yet alone what it means. It’s Combeferre so he tries but the machine next to him beeps and he flinches, then turns to see where it came from and loses Combeferre. The hand in his own squeezes and it brings him back. Instead of responding or asking questions of his own like _why is he in the hospital_ , Enjolras smiles. It’s a lazy, drugged smile but a form of response nonetheless. Not a good one, it seems, given Combeferre’s concerned, disappointed face. It’s replaced by a quick smile of his own and a squeeze of Enjolras’ hand, then a turn to Courfeyrac to say something that causes the other boy to leave. Enjolras simply watches Combeferre, his sight blurry and hazy. _That’s something he should ask about, too._ His face is blank as he tries desperately to find a word, any word, because Combeferre looks scared. Combeferre isn’t allowed to be afraid, Enjolras decides.  

     “He’s going to get the doctor. Everything’s fine. He’ll just want to ask a few questions.” Combeferre is saying, explaining. Enjolras only looks at him before breaking out the lazy smile again. It’s the only thing he can think of doing that may help. A breathy, scared laugh escapes Combeferre and he studies Enjolras for a minute with wide eyes and a slack jaw before slowly nodding. “You still don’t have any idea what I’m saying, do you?”   

     Enjolras moves his eyes away from Combeferre to search the room. It may have been a question but the machine is flashing a red light and it steals his attention. When Combeferre speaks again, it grabs his attention again. His best friend is sitting on the bed now, smiling and nodding, speaking but this time more to himself. Enjolras watches because maybe if he tries hard enough he’ll figure out what he’s saying. “Okay. That’s okay. Don’t worry, Enjolras.” He reaches out and brushes a curl off his forehead. _I need to fix that_ , Combeferre reminds himself. “We can handle this. We can fix this. I’m going to fix this.”    

     It’s a promise that the blond misses but he smiles at Combeferre and Combeferre smiles back, albeit scared and concerned and running through a million different scenarios in his head but he’s here and he’s going to fix this. Or he’s not and they will handle it anyway. The only thing that matters is that Enjolras is alive. Combeferre leans forward and kisses his forehead.    

     Enjolras’ hand in his own pulls but doesn’t let go of it’s grip. It’s not strong enough to hold Combeferre’s hand as he lifts it so Combeferre moves into the motion. Enjolras brings both of their hands to his face, rubbing his eye with the back of his fist. When he’s done, it drops heavily in his lap. Combeferre studies Enjolras’ face as it knits in thought, then smiles when Enjolras brings his hand up again to kiss it because Combeferre looks scared. Enjolras has reached for comfort before but he’s never tried to give it. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated but there is thought and a process and intention behind the action. Combeferre gets an idea.   

     He scoots up a little closer, making sure he’s sitting directly in Enjolras’ line of sight. “Hey, Enjolras?” His words are slow and each syllable is measured. “Can you touch your nose?”   

     Enjolras blinks at him.   

     “Touch your nose,” demands Combeferre softly. He makes a show of letting go of his friends hand, pointing his index finger up, then bringing it to his nose. Next he picks up Enjolras’ hand and taps his finger before demonstrating again. “Can you do it, E?”   

     Enjolras blinks, then crinkles his nose in an amused yet baffled smile. He lifts up his hand and touches his nose with a little chuckle. It’s clumsy but he does it with one try, clearly understanding the question after the demonstration. Combeferre’s hands shoot up in a cheer, filled with a sudden burst of excited energy. “Fuck yeah! Good. That’s so good, Enjolras.” A loud, elated laugh escapes and he isn’t sure what to do with his hands. They land in his hair, then clapped out in front of him. Enjolras is still watching him, eyebrow raised, mouth slightly parted but the corners turned up in a little grin. After Combeferre takes a deep breath, his expression thrilled, Enjolras touches his nose again. He looks to Combeferre eagerly, not searching for praise as much as hoping to keep his friend as joyous as he was the first time he did it.   

     “That’s good, E.” He smiles, squeezing Enjolras’ hand. “Can you touch your chin?”   

     Combeferre touches his chin. Enjolras mimics him.   

     “Great! Enjolras, this is good.” The boy pushes up his glasses, then pulls his legs up onto the bed so he’s sitting cross-legged. “Can you pat your chest?”   

     Combeferre pats his chest. Enjolras mimics him.   

     “Can you stick out your tongue?”   

     Combeferre sticks out his tongue. Enjolras mimics.   

     He continues to ask questions, demonstrating, then cheering when Enjolras parrots the action. The movements are slower, requiring both a little more thought and a little more effort but he accomplishes it every time. After a few, Combeferre starts repeating the demands. He goes through them three times before he stops showing Enjolras. “Can you touch your nose?” Enjolras is smiling at him, head slightly cocked like a puppy waiting for a command. “Can you touch your nose for me, Enjolras?”   

     The blond glances out the window but turns back to Combeferre with a bright look in his eyes. He reaches out for his friends’ hand. Combeferre asks one more time. When Enjolras only looks around again, he sighs and collects his hand. He kisses the fingers, cautious of the IV. The affection brings Enjolras’ attention back to him. Combeferre tries to force his face to something closer to normal, maybe even happy, but regrettably feels the disappointment in the creases around his eyes. If Enjolras can pick up when he’s excited, surely he can pick up when he’s upset. The blond is staring at Combeferre, lips pursed, concentration tight along his features. His mouth opens, then closes. Desperate around silent words. He doesn’t have to say the words for Combeferre to know he’s trying to apologize.   

     “It’s okay,” promises Combeferre. He cringes, hearing the defeat in his voice. Despite knowing that Enjolras can’t understand him, he says it anyway. “You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize.”    

     He squeezes the beloved hand in his own, reveling in the fact that Enjolras squeezes back. A month ago, he wouldn’t have gotten a response. Now he can comprehend, he just can’t understand. It’s his speech. There are ways around that, there are ways to fix that. Combeferre is going to fix this. Their hands fall to the bed and with it, Combeferre’s gaze. He doesn’t want to look up and show Enjolras how scared he really is, how angry he is. However, Enjolras doesn’t agree with his tactics. Pulling his hand out of Combeferre’s grasp brings the boy’s head up. With a somewhat shaky finger, a sign of how much energy this costs him, he reaches out and touches Combeferre’s nose.    

     Bewildered for a second, Combeferre blinks at Enjolras before throwing his head back in a hearty laugh. The look on Enjolras’ face is proud and smug, eyebrow raised in his accomplishment. Combeferre wipes a few tears away from the corner of his eye, before carefully letting his head fall on to Enjolras’ chest. Some time goes by like this, Combeferre listening to the steady rise and fall of his best friends chest, stifling tears while Enjolras does his best to pat his back. Enough time goes by that Enjolras’ hand stills as he struggles to stay awake and Combeferre closes his eyes.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Dr. Larose skips the introductions, despite the suspicious stare he receives from his patient. It’s clear Enjolras doesn’t remember him, which is noteworthy but not concerning yet. He brought Joly along with him, as it will keep Enjolras calm to see his friend but it’s completely self-serving. Enjolras is stubborn but his friends are even harder to handle. With Joly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac immediately listen where it would easily take Larose several minutes of answering questions before they complied to the same request. It would be frustrating if he didn’t admire their loyalty. Instead he finds it amusing.   

     Joly managed to get Courfeyrac to sit on the couch, well out of the way, as he usually does. It would be ideal for Combeferre to join them but asking him to let go of Enjolras’ hand is a fight not worth winning and Larose has found he’s an useful tool when dealing with Enjolras. Usually the blond lets Larose do whatever he needs to do as long as Combeferre is there, holding his hand and smiling. Sometimes when Enjolras is too close to sleep or feeling particularly feisty, Combeferre talks encouragingly or Courfeyrac tells animated stories that keep the blond enthralled long enough for the doctor to examine his chest or for a nurse to draw blood. That’s where Larose first saw them utilized so wonderfully and he easily adapted it to work in his favor. There is a learning curve with a patient such as Enjolras. Coupling a stubborn and intense kid with the injuries he suffered, a doctor-patient relationship is vital. Larose doesn’t usually tend to care if his patients like him, only if they trust him but with Enjolras, one comes with the other. His cognitive difficulties leave him searching his friends’ faces, especially Combeferre’s, for an example of how to react. Without that guide, he’s a nightmare.   

     The first time Enjolras was aware enough to react to Larose, he kicked the doctor in the stomach when he was checking his reflexes. After a deep breath, Larose laughed. “Well, there’s clearly no problem there.” Enjolras didn’t get the joke, only setting him with a glare.   

     The second time, he smacked the pen light clear out of his hands causing it to shatter across the floor. Larose looked at it for a minute before turning to Enjolras with raised eyebrows. With a smirk, he said, “I have another one.” Enjolras tried to hit it again but Larose was quicker and steadily avoided the blond until he gave up. He didn’t know then but a stern look from Combeferre would have ended that little game well in the beginning.    

     The third time Enjolras nearly fell off the MRI bed in a panic attack that defied the severity of the injuries he suffered. That was the scary moment, the kind of heart skipping fear that allowed Larose to see into the future of the boy landing in a heap on the ground. After that, he used Combeferre because like Courfeyrac and Joly gushed, _Combeferre is magic_.   

     Larose alternates between looking at Enjolras and Combeferre as he gives the same quick run down to update everyone before moving forward with whichever concern he has for this visit. “Your oxygen levels have improved, which is great. They’re still a little low for my liking but we’ll keep an eye on it and if they continue to rise, then we can take you off the oxygen mask completely. Outside of that, your vitals are leveling out so I’d like to schedule the next surgery for the following week.”   

     “Then can he go home?” Combeferre asks suddenly. He didn’t mean to. In fact he was actively biting his tongue to keep the hopeful question at bay, yet he asked and now he waits eagerly for the response. From the couch behind Larose, Courfeyrac sits up a little straighter but Joly’s hand on his knee keeps him there.   

     Larose sighs. “It will be a few months before he’s healthy enough to be released.”   

     “A few months?” asks Combeferre dumbly.   

     “A few months.” The doctor confirms. He knew that was the answer and he curses himself for even asking. Larose must see this or know this or predicted this because he gives Combeferre a sad, understanding smile. The boy looks down at his hands and the doctor continues. “It’s going to be a long, difficult recovery but it’s better than grieving.”   

     “I know.” He doesn’t mean to come across like a moody child but he can’t seem to help it. Thankfully Larose simply brushes it off.   

     “Good,” nods the doctor. Combeferre snorts, liking his no nonsense attitude. When Enjolras can understand him, they’ll get along great. “Now, I’d like to run a few tests. After, we can see how you feel about having some visitors.”   

     From his spot on the couch, Courfeyrac shouts, “Be good, E! Their all going fucking stir crazy without seeing you.”   

     Enjolras turns to him with an amused light in his eyes. When Combeferre chuckles, Enjolras looks back over and laughs too. The doctor smiles at the interaction. He starts asking Enjolras a series of questions, intent on finishing quickly so he can see his friends, they’ve given up trying to keep everyone out a few days ago and really, it’s been better for everyone. Surprisingly enough, mostly Enjolras. But the blond continues to turn away, glancing to Courfeyrac on the couch or out the window. The doctor calls his name. It only earns him a flicker of passing interest before he goes to pull at the strings on his cast.   

     “Jolras,” hisses Combeferre. The blond turns immediately. “Pay attention.” He points to the doctor with raised eyebrows. Enjolras follows his finger, then sighs and rolls his eyes when he sees the doctor. He looks away again only to be called back. “Hey, wanna see Grantaire and Jehan? All the others?”   

     At the mention of his friends Enjolras straightens a little, completely focused now. The _three week rule_ has been mostly shrugged off by the nurses after seeing the wide grin Enjolras gets when he’s seen Joly and Grantaire. Everyone’s seen him by now and they flood his room with every opportunity they can. Combeferre points sternly to the doctor a second time. Larose starts his questions again. For every response, he gets a few puzzled blinks and a glance to Combeferre but Enjolras is paying attention and that’s all he can ask for. Nodding, he notes the reaction in the boy’s file. Next, he takes his pen and asks Enjolras to follow it. The blond stares at his face before turning to his friend on the couch and smiling.   

     “He can do it if you show him.” Combeferre says.   

     “Pardon?”   

     “He can do it but you have to show him what he needs to do. Look.” Combeferre calls Enjolras, then points to the doctor. “Do it to me.”   

     Larose moves the pen and Combeferre follows it with his eyes. When he’s done, they both look to Enjolras. Holding up the pen, Larose smirks when Enjolras looks at it instead of him. He doesn’t follow the motion for long. He’s still quick to grow distracted, turning away to find Courfeyrac or staring at the lights on the machines to his right. As the doctor moves to write in his folder, Combeferre stops him. “May I try?”   

     “Sure.” He hands him the pen.   

     “Enjolras, follow the pen.” Combeferre commands. Enjolras smiles, then looks away but Combeferre calls his name again and his friend turns to him. He moves the pen and where the blond doesn’t follow it continuously, he fights his fleeting attention to keep up. Larose chuckles softly, charmed by their relationship. “Does that help? Or do you want me to do it again?”   

     “No, that’s great. Thank you.” He takes back his pen to record his notes when Combeferre silently thanks Enjolras. Next, the doctor makes quick work of examining Enjolras’ ears, which he hates but puts up with because Combeferre is smiling at him and he always looks so proud when Enjolras behaves. The last few things don’t require Enjolras but the machines he’s attached to and soon enough Larose is saying goodbye and promising he’ll be back later. He leaves with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, letting most of his friends into the little room with a delighted laugh from Enjolras, content that Joly is there to keep an eye on everything.   

     “What do you think, doc?” Courfeyrac asks as soon as the door is closed.   

     “I think we’ll keep Combeferre around,” jokes the doctor. The boys humor him with a smile but their concern keeps them from giving him anything more. Larose grows serious, closing the folder and holding it under his arm as he speaks. “It’s still a good deal early to know the full repercussions. However, we’re starting to see a few things. His reflexes are healthy. His long term memory seems alright as far as I can tell, seeing how he responds to you both. His vision is blurry and his cognitive skills show signs of damage.”

     “And his comprehension?” asks Combeferre.

     Courfeyrac watches his friend speak before asking, “Is it his hearing?”   

     “No. He turns to his name, meaning he hears and understands it. He listens intently to you so I would guess it’s mostly likely a language issue, specifically in speech and comprehension.”    

     “But he understands his name,” states Courfeyrac dumbly. The two look at him. Expanding with a roll of his eyes, Courfeyrac asks, “If he understands his name how is it a comprehension problem?”   

     “Knowing his name yet having difficulties understanding a conversation isn’t unusual. You and Combeferre have been talking to him since he woke up. He could have easily learned it, just as he’s learned your names.”   

     “Then he can learn more.”   

     “Yes.” Larose responds simply. “Look, as I said, it is still very early in his recovery. There is no telling what he is or isn’t capable of. I’d like to set up an appointment with a speech pathologist. Valjean is the best in the state. He should be able to give us more information as to what Enjolras can’t get across.”   

     “I’m a little concerned about how little he’s speaking.” Combeferre admits as bravely as he can. Enjolras has mumbled his name before and says something that sounds like _hello_ and _no_ but hasn’t said anything past that. Sometimes he tries, but it is only successful in frustrating them both.   

     “As am I but we won’t have any more information until the speech pathologist meets with him.”     

     “Until then?” asks Combeferre.

     “We do what we can. We monitor his improvements and keep talking to him.” The doctor sighs when the two boys share a displeased look at the less than productive answer. “Look, I’ve seen the both of you with him. All that matters is that you keep doing whatever you do that makes him smile so much because soon it’s going to get a whole lot harder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	17. July 24

         The hospital seems quiet today. Cosette cocks her head, hoping to hear anything as she strides down the hall. It suddenly seems empty, unfamiliar, unnerving. There are a few nurses at the receptionist desk but no patients, no families waiting, no doctors passing by. It sends a chill down her spine. Of the few times she’s experienced quiet and ominous days like today, she’s liked none of them. Nothing truly horrible has ever happened to her, despite the unsettling feeling in her gut, but she’s never been as emotionally invested in a patient where something could go wrong as she is with Enjolras. Whether he remembers her or not. Cosette takes a deter on her way to meeting Marius to stop by his room. She doesn’t like when the hospital is this quiet.   

     After checking her phone and smiling at the somewhat frantic voicemail Marius left her about the heavy traffic, she sends him a quick, reassuring text and turns it off. Phones are prohibited everywhere outside of the waiting rooms and private offices but they are dangerous in the High Dependency and Intensive Care Units. The lack of nurses to yell at her only further weighs her stomach. Perhaps there is an emergency she’s unaware of or a holiday she forgot about. She quickens her steps to Enjolras.    

     The door to his room is open and voices can be heard from the hallway, the first sound since she got to the HDU. It’s mostly Courfeyracs’ voice, light and lyrical in the way he has of telling a story and Enjolras’ soft laughter laces in every so often. It’s a welcomed sound. Cosette knocks but walks in anyway, as she had from the first day Courfeyrac brought her in. The irishman turns around from his spot on the couch, stopping mid-sentence to throw his hands up in excitement and shout her name. His wide grin is infectious and her worry dissipates. Enjolras shifts his head on the pillow, eyes squinting to try to better see her face. She returns the fierce hug from Courfeyrac, then sits on the edge of the bed. Enjolras studies her, then looks to Courfeyrac before giving her a twitch of a smile.   

     “Hi there, handsome. Looks like someone got a haircut.” She brushes a few fingers across his new short hair. His smile grows almost sheepish and he drops his gaze as he runs his hand over his hair. Cosette bites back her smile. Enjolras may not remember her yet and even though he reacts just the same every time, she’s always inexplicably happy when he does. He looks up to her with an amused smile. There’s a moment when he looks like he’s going to say something but the words fail him and he grimaces in his disappointment. She waits patiently, smiling encouragingly until he looks away discouraged.   

     “Combeferre was insistent that it gets done before his surgery.” Courfeyrac explains quickly, not letting the silence linger.    

     “When is it?” She asks, glancing down to the small bowl of cereal sitting precariously on Enjolras’ lap. When she looks back, Enjolras brings his hand to his mouth then offers her the bowl.   

     “The day after tomorrow. Wait, what was that?” He asks when Cosette nods, taps her chin with her fingers and takes a small handful. “What does that mean?”   

     “It’s sign language.” Cosette answers distractedly, so pleasantly surprised as she watches Enjolras pick at his bowl as if it's not a big deal he just did that.   

     “Enjolras doesn’t know sign language. How does he know sign language?”    

     “I’ve been casually showing him a few signs during our visits.” Meaning he remembered something for their time together. “Last time he was eating something. I didn’t know he was picking up on it though.”   

     Courfeyrac studies Enjolras, the blue eyes distracted by something outside the window but he doesn’t seem to have the energy to crane his head far enough to see. He turns to Cosette who’s still picking at the cereal that Enjolras has forgotten about. “Oh. Okay, well then what does this mean then?”   

     She watches Courfeyrac make a strange pinching motion around his chest with one hand and shrugs. “I don’t know what that is.”   

     “Enjolras,” calls Courfeyrac. When his friend turns, he does it again. The blond shakes his head and moves back to picking at his cereal. “He does it a lot. I know it means something. He does it like it means something.”   

     After doing it again, Enjolras still watching him, the blond mimics the action then looks to Courfeyrac questioningly. Cosette cocks her head. She does the same movement, changing it a little to fit the natural pattern. “Oh, tired. It means tired but you’re supposed to do it with two hands.”   

     A wide grin spreads across Courfeyracs’ face but it falls just as quickly. The incredibility of Enjolras communicating with them sinks with the knowledge that they been missing it. “Teach us. Please? Can you teach us whatever you teach him?”   

     “I wasn’t actively teaching him, Courf. It’s more of a habit that I picked up in high school when I was learning it in class.”   

     “That means he can learn more though. If he’s picked it up from you doing it as a habit, think of what he can learn when we actually teach him!” Courfeyrac jumps to his feet and throws his hands out excitedly. “He can speak. He can communicate. This is amazing, Cosette!”   

     She tries to bite back her grin at his enthusiasm. Enjolras watches him, entertained but not nearly as surprised. For him, this is normal Courfeyrac behavior. Before Cosette can calm him down, afraid of crushing his joy with her doubts that Enjolras may not learn as much as Courfeyrac thinks possible, Combeferre appears in the doorway. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he takes in the dancing Courfeyrac, singing and pointing at Enjolras whose eyes shifts just a few seconds behind Courfeyrac’s movements.   

     “Ferre!” Courfeyrac shouts. “Ferre, look at this.” He moves to the bed and taps his mouth several times but Enjolras only blinks at him until Cosette shows him the right way to hold his hand. When he does it again, Enjolras offers him the bowl. “It means food.”   

     “It means eat.” Cosette corrects.   

     “What is going on?” asks Combeferre as he moves in to the room. He asks again, leaning towards Enjolras with raised eyebrows, bright eyes, and a teasing nod in Courfeyrac’s direction. The blond laughs, a full-hearted sound. He runs his hand across his face, then reaches out for Combeferre. After a few taps on his hand, he intertwines their fingers.   

     “He knows sign language, Ferre.” Courfeyrac leaps forward and presses a series of kisses down the side of Enjolras’ face. Enjolras scrunches against the onslaught of affection.    

     “What do you mean?”   

     “This beautiful bastard can talk. Well, sort of. Communicate. He can communicate. Sign language!” Courfeyrac sings and Cosette forgets all about how quiet the hospital felt earlier. “Why didn’t we think of that before? Sign language.”   

     “Sign language.” He repeats slightly dumbfounded.   

     “I learned it in high school and I’ve been using it around him.” Cosette elaborates. “He’s picked up some of it.”   

     “What does he know?”   

     “So far, eat and tired. He may know more but he’s just not using them right now.” Cosette tells him.    

     The grin that spreads across Combeferre’s face is slow and wide, the happiest Cosette has ever seen. He looks at Enjolras the way her father looks at her sometimes. It almost brings tears to her eyes. “Can you teach me some?”   

     “Of course!” Cosette scoots up in her seat but is a little taken back when Courfeyrac sits down on the couch, completely attentive. She’s even more surprised that Courfeyrac pays attention the entire half hour she’s teaching them whatever she can think may be useful for Enjolras to know. Courfeyrac and Combeferre take diligent notes, ask for suggestions, and give Cosette their complete focus until Enjolras reaches out and tugs on Combeferres’ shirt. He drops his hold but it’s enough to grab their attention, successfully ending their little impromptu lesson.   

     Combeferre takes Enjolras’ hand and moves to sit beside him. The blond drops his head heavily on his friend’s shoulder just as a knock on the door brings their gaze up. An older couple peaks in cautiously. The woman holds her hand up to her mouth and tears build in the corners of her eyes while the man offers a comforting hand on the small of her back. Combeferre slides carefully off the bed and it brings Enjolras’ head up but it drops just as quickly with a whine.   

     “Is this a bad time?” The man asks quietly, hesitating by the door but the woman moves directly to the bed before they can answer. After a kind yet quick pat on Combeferre’s cheek, she sits on the bed and takes Enjolras’ face gently in her hands, studying him the way a mother would a sick child. The man follows her, shaking Courfeyracs’ hand then hugging Combeferre. His hand stays on the boys’ back, offering silent support the same way he had for the woman.   

     “He’s about to fall asleep,” Courfeyrac warns. “But it’s not a bad time. It’s never a bad time for you guys.”   

     Cosette moves off the bed to stand next to Courfeyrac, watching the way the woman brushes her thumb along the scar under Enjolras’ eye. Her touches are endearing and loving. “How is his vision?” She questions Combeferre without looking away from Enjolras, who opened his eyes at her touch. He stares at her blankly for a long minute before falling in to her arms. With one hand on his back and the other cupped around his neck, she keeps him close in her embrace.   

     “Still blurry. The doctor said it stopped clearing up a few days ago. If it doesn’t get better, they’ll start trying a few different medications but they won’t worry about it until after his last surgery.”   

     “He looks thin.”   

     “He’s still at a healthy weight.” Combeferre reassures. “The nutritionist is watching it.”   

     “He’s starting to get back on normal food,” adds Courfeyrac. “Meaning he should start gaining more weight.”   

     “Outside the doctor said that he’s recovering relatively normally.” The man says, turning up his tone to imply he’s seeking confirmation.   

     “The biggest concerns right now are his eyes and his speech. You know, the possible brain damage and all.” Combeferre explains with forced laugh, awkward and short, and his hand clench nervously by his side.   

     “I’ve raised six children, dear.” The woman says with a stern look to her husband before planting a kiss on the top of Enjolras’ head. “I know what is normal and this is not normal.”   

     Cosette didn’t miss the way Combeferre and Courfeyrac chuckle, then share a look. “Are you his parents?” She braves asking.     

     At the same time Courfeyrac says _basically_ , the woman answers, “I wish.”   

     “Cosette, these are my parents.” Combeferre says. “Mom, Dad, this is Cosette. She’s dating Marius.”   

     “It’s lovely to meet you!” She waves at them both, rocking from her heels to her toes, torn between giving them hugs or keeping her distance. They are pleasant to her, kind and welcoming, but distracted by the boy so clearly loved by them so she stays back, eventually waving goodbye to give them the time together. She has to meet Marius anyway.  

     When Courfeyrac follows her out, she’s a little surprised. He shrugs, saying, “They love Enjolras more than they love me and Combeferre combined.”   

     “They must be close, then.” She observes. “But where are his parents?”   

     “Well, his mom died when he was nine and his dad is a dick, so we don’t really care where he is.”   

     “He hasn’t seen Enjolras?”   

     Courfeyrac shakes his head but rethinks his bitter rant when he sees the heartbreaking concern in her face. “It’s okay,” he promises. “He’d much rather see Combeferre’s parents than his father. He goes to their house for Christmas and technically, Combeferre only has four siblings.”    

     She laughs, breathing easier with knowing he’s well-loved and they fall quiet as they walk out together, because it doesn’t matter who loves him, just that he’s loved. Cosette knows the reality of that.    

     “Are you going to come get lunch with Marius and I?” Cosette asks when they get to the elevator, pulling her hair up in to a pony tail. She pauses, though, her hands freezing where she’s combing back her long bangs when Courfeyrac stops walking and faces her.   

     “Cosette, I love you.” He says as a serious preamble but doesn’t get far before she interrupts him.   

     “Are you sleeping with Jehan?”   

     He tilts his head, mouth falling open a little in shock. “What? I- what? I wasn’t going to confess anything. I was going to give you the classic _break my friend’s hear_ _t_ speech.”   

     “Sure, okay but before that I just have to know.” Her blue eyes study him in a way that looks frighteningly similar to Enjolras searching for an answer he already knows. Just like with Enjolras, he has to look away.   

     “It’s a bit complicated.”   

     “But you were, weren’t you? You’re not anymore but you were.”   

     “How the fuck do you know that?” He stammers, his breath picking up for no reason. “The only people who know that are Combeferre, Jehan, and Enjolras. Combeferre wouldn’t say anything and Enjolras can’t say anything. Did Jehan talk to you about it?”   

     Cosette places a soft hand on his arm, “First off I’m pretty sure everyone knows at least something. Second, Jehan didn’t say anything. I just figured it out.”   

     “Really?” He asks, torn between doubt and fear. It would make sense, though. He knew when Joly and Bossuet were first getting together, when Éponine started mooning over Marius and Grantaire over Enjolras, when Musichetta joined the picture. He saw the way Combeferre would watch Éponine with a twinkle in his eyes and when Éponine noticed. He knew that before the accident Enjolras had been laughing more around Grantaire. Of course they knew about him and Jehan. “And you just figured it out? Just like that. What was it a shared glance or a lingering touch of hands?” He sounds cross but she just chuckles.   

     “Well you know that I moved in to his extra room because I’m going to school in the city this semester and at first, he wasn’t spending the nights at home. He wasn’t spending any time at home. I was actually really disappointed because I’ve never had a roommate so I thought we would do cute roomie things together,” she said with a little wave of her hand. “But he seemed to really like this person he was with so I let it slide. However, the last few weeks he’s been home every night.”   

     “So why does that mean that I’m the one he was spending the night with?”   

     “Everyone knows he was staying at your apartment. He stopped sleeping there when we stole the extra couch and you started staying here.”   

     “We weren’t fucking though.” Courfeyrac puts his hands defensively on his hips. He feels guilty, now, when he looks back on Jehan letting him cry on his shoulder and cooking him breakfast. Forcing him to shower and sleep and telling him it’s going to be okay. Courfeyrac always believed him a little more the later the night got. The only reason Courfeyrac was able to be there for Combeferre was because Jehan was there for him.   

     “You were before the accident, though.” She says as if she’s the one telling him how their relationship went.   

     “So?” He snaps. He’s not sure why it bothers him that she knows or that everyone knows but it seemed _like he liked him? How? Did he say anything?_ Courfeyrac shakes his head against those questions. Things are complicated now. “Things are complicated now.”   

     She nods, agreeing with him. “Did you like him or was it just sex?”   

     Courfeyrac doesn’t answer right away. He liked him and it wasn’t just sex but that’s all they seemed to focus on so maybe he was wrong. When they hung out it was in a bed, naked and tangled together but they talked like that, read, watched movies, laughed, fell asleep like that. He could have liked him, it could have been more but then Enjolras fell and he was no longer allowed to think of that kind of stuff. How can he think of Jehan’s shy smile when he had insurance forms to file? How could he imagine what their dates would be like when he needed to do a budget for Enjolras’ continuously growing hospital bills? How was he supposed to hope for a boyfriend when his best friend can’t lift up his own head? “I don’t know.”     

     The girl smiles, nodding like it was the right answer, before linking arms and leading them out of the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	18. July 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' surgery.

         Courfeyrac starts with his arms crossed pinned against his chest but that doesn’t work so he tries intertwining his hands in front of him. It doesn’t still his anxiety. Instead, it sends the energy straight to his toes and his bouncing feet echo the only sound in the waiting room. That’s worse than the silence that haunted it before so he locks his ankles together and moves his hands to his hair. Combeferre is sitting across from him, flanked by his parents, and stock still. Éponine and Jehan are on either side of Courfeyrac. The one is holding Grantaires’ hand, her thumb running a slow and steady rhythm across his skin, and Jehan has his eyes closed, head in his hands. It seems most are handling the waiting better than Courfeyrac is.    

     A quick look around the room, confirms that everyone is, in fact, controlling themselves in a way Courfeyrac seems incapable of doing. Sitting with his back against the wall, Feuilly busies himself making small paper cranes and next to him Bahorel’s playing cards with Marius. Cosette’s reading the same page in her book that she has been trying to get through since she first sat down. Bossuet slowly makes his way through the container of brownies Musichetta made while the girl leans on his shoulder, staring blankly at Courfeyracs’ tapping feet because he can’t stop them. Courfeyrac shakes his head, frustrated at himself for not being able to sit calmly, to distract himself, to free himself of the horrible images floating through his mind. Blood dripping to the floor, machines flashing and shrieking, Enjolras' hand hanging dramatically off the table. Lifeless. He shakes his head and rolls his neck, trying to rid himself of the cramps in his muscles. Both he and Combeferre didn’t sleep well last night. No one slept well last night.   

     Another minute ticks by and his imagination grows more cruel. Not being able to stop himself, he leans forward, hissing at Combeferre for his attention in as subtle of a way as he can manage. When he’s making the only noise in the room, though, people notice. Everyone’s heads shoot up, their hands stilling. Courfeyrac sighs and rolls his eyes at himself. “How long did they say this would take?”   

     Combeferre clears his throat. “Five to six hours.”   

     “How long has it been?”   

     “Half an hour, Courf.” His friend answers after a slow twist of his wrist. Courfeyrac lets out a breathy curse in his disbelief before standing up, unable to contain his nervous energy. It's getting remarkably harder to breath. He paces between their two rows, alternating between rubbing his palms against his eyes and tapping his thumbs against his chest. “Maybe a walk will help?”   

     “I am fucking walking, Ferre.” Courfeyrac snaps, not seeing that Combeferre wasn’t looking at him. A gentle hand intertwines with his, pulling it off his face, and soon Jehan is leading him outside the building with little resistance. The hot breeze is stifling but welcomed compared to the sanitized hospital air. Courfeyrac follows Jehan blindly to the back of the hospital, only stopping once they find a large tree, heavy and full with bright leaves above them, casting a comforting shadow where they stand. Jehan lights two cigarettes, passes one to Courfeyrac, then sits on the ground with his back against the tree trunk.   

     In front of him, Courfeyrac continues to pace but it’s a calmer, steadier movement and Jehan is content that the forced control has faded even though his fear has not. He waits patiently, watching Courfeyrac through the slow smoke he releases every few minutes. There’s a heavy sigh from the irishman before he sinks to the ground opposite of Jehan. His cigarette rests in between his fingers, unsmoked and forgotten. “I don’t like this, Jehan.”   

     “No one likes this.”   

     “No, I mean.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, I don’t have a good feeling about this.”   

     “The doc said it’s rather routine. They wouldn’t have done it if they didn’t think he was strong enough to handle it.”   

     “Doctors have been wrong before. Shit happens. Things don’t go as planned.” He shakes his head, waving a hand in the air as if to say he could go on.   

     Jehan rubs his cigarette in the dirt and brings his legs close to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. “What’s the value in thinking like that, Courf?”   

     “I don’t want to. I can’t stop.” His own cigarette burns down to his hand and he drops it, then rubs it out. “It makes me sick to my stomach thinking about how they’re cutting him open. Again.”   

     The poet grimaces at the image. His gaze drops to the toes of his shoes. “That’s a fucked up way to put it.”   

     “It’s the definition of surgery, Jehan.”    

     “Shut up,” snaps the boy. “They’re fixing him, okay? Don’t put those fucking doubts in my head and get rid of them yourself. It’s not fair to think Enjolras so weak.”   

     Sheepishly, Courfeyrac whispers an apology. Jehan only angrily shakes his head and they fall quiet. Some time in the silence it shifts from tense to companionable, then comforting. Courfeyrac finds himself staring at the way Jehan closes his eyes when he takes deep breaths, smelling the dry, sweet summer air. It brings a soft smile to the gentle face. Suddenly he finds himself distracted. Without thinking, he blurts out, “Cosette asked me if we were together.”   

     “What do you mean?” Jehan hopes the tightness in his chest doesn’t sound in his voice. “You and me?”   

     Courfeyrac nods. “The girl’s smart. Marius better be careful.”   

     “Marius doesn’t have anything to be careful about,” Jehan snorts, shaking his head and smiling. “Have you seen the way he looks at her? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen love in such a pure, almost innocent form.”   

     “Love? They’ve been going out for less than a month.”   

     “So?”   

     “So? So you don’t fall in love with someone in a month. It’s an infatuation not _spend our lives together_ love.” Courfeyrac tells him with a laugh and it comes across like Jehan’s a small, naive child. The poet only looks away, raising his eyebrows in obvious disagreement and _fuck_ that wasn’t where he was going with this. He shifts on the ground, tossing a stick aside that he had been sitting on, and tries a different approach. “Do you remember when Enjolras found out about us,” he pauses at a loss for what their relationship would be defined as so he goes with, “being together and all?”   

     Jehan smiles, then bites it back to a smirk but as the memory floods his vision he laughs. “He didn’t notice at first.”   

     “He didn’t care,” corrects Courfeyrac with a grin. He looks away, seeing the blond stalking back and forth across his room, tossing his hands up in his frustration. “He was so pissed but Lamarque did the right thing forcing him to take a week off.”   

     “It didn’t stop him from ranting for twenty minutes, though.”   

     “And once he stopped, he just fell asleep.”   

     “Right between us,” adds Jehan with a soft smile. “He never asked any questions, never gave us a suspicious look. Just made sure to knock next time.”   

     Courfeyrac bites his bottom lip, chest fluttering a little because that is _what_ _Jehan does to him_. “He did ask one question.”   

     “When?”   

     “The next day when we were eating breakfast.”   

     “Did he ask who initiated it? That was one of Cosette’s first questions.”   

     “Combeferre’s too but Enjolras just asked how.”   

     “How?” Jehan blushes. “Like how we fucked?”   

     “No. What? No, not like that. Enjolras isn’t a virgin, you know.”   

     “No, I know that.” He answers too quickly.   

     Courfeyrac opens his mouth but then closes it to set Jehan with a suspicious narrow of his eyes, “How do you know that?”   

     “It doesn’t matter.” The poet answers with a wave of his hand. Before his friend can pursue it, he asks, “What did E ask?”   

     “We’re going to talk about that later.” Courfeyrac promises before sighing and moving back towards his point. “He asked how I knew.”   

     “Knew what?”   

     “How I knew that I wanted to be with you.” He says softly, to the ground.   

     They both fall quiet, staring at ants or dirt or a dried leaf, anything but the other person. “Did he know we were just fucking?” Jehan asks, his voice tight.   

     “It was a little more than that.” Courfeyrac retorts with more confidence than this conversation is leaving him with. “Right? I mean, we weren’t fucking when he came in and we talked a lot. We watched movies. Maybe I read in to it but I thought we were, I don’t know spending time together? And the sex was just a really fun way to do that.”   

     He looks up and although Jehan still isn’t looking at him, there is a gentle smile on his face and Courfeyrac takes a breath because he looks relieved, maybe. Hopefully. “What was your answer?”   

     “I told him that it was you. That it was _Jehan_.” He makes an elaborate gesture with his hands and a dumb grin spreads across his face. “I told him that when I am with you, fucking or not, that everything else goes away and when I know I’m going to see you the world just seems to pass by until you’re there and, oh god. I am so, so sorry Jehan.” He drops his head to his hands. “Everything just got so fucked up and we haven’t even gone on a date and that’s fucked up because I want to take you out on a date.”    

     Jehan’s jaw drops a little and he smiles at Courfeyrac who continues on his rant in his hands. “I owe you dinner and breakfast and lunch, too. I owe you everything because you deserve everything but I have to work twice as much to cover for Enjolras because there’s no way in hell he can pay these medical bills. Insurance isn't covering this. When I'm not working I have to be here because Enjolras is here, then we have to meet with the speech pathologist and set up a date with the physical therapist and Combeferre still wakes up crying and I can’t leave him alone to that.”    

     He only stops when Jehan grabs his hands and forces them away from his face. There are tears in his eyes but none fall. He looks up to the poet with a petulant face, angry that his confession was interrupted. “You’re being stupid,” Jehan tells him gently. Courfeyrac tries to argue but he’s stopped with a soft kiss. “I don’t want a date any more than you do right now. I just want Enjolras home and I want things to get back to normal and for everyone to be safe. Then you can take me out on a date.”   

     Courfeyrac looks at him. He stares for a long time, flickering from his freckles to his soft green eyes to the way his lips look a little chapped. His hands shake in the strong, ink stained grip. “It won’t be.” Courfeyrac admits in a quiet whisper. “It’s not going to go back to normal. It’s not going to be okay. Things aren’t going to be okay.”   

     “Courfeyrac-”   

     “No, because it’s not.”   

     “He’s alive.” He says because it's become a group mantra whenever anything starts to feel a little more difficult.    

     “That doesn’t mean things are okay.” Courfeyrac says louder, cutting off Jehan’s comforting words, moving away from him. “It can’t be. It can’t be normal. He can’t talk, Jehan. He can’t lift his fucking head up and yeah, in a month or in six he may be able to walk and may be able to communicate some how but things just don’t go back to normal. They can’t. That’s not how things work! And what happens when he realizes that? Oh, god.” It’s getting harder to breath. “What happens when he figures out how much this is costing him and how much he’s lost? Does he even know why he’s here? He already gets upset when he can’t find the words. How many times has he tried to ask us to help explain things? What happens when he tries to ask a question and he’s ignored because we don’t know he’s confused or hurting or lost?” His words are cut off with a strong tackle from Jehan.    

     The poet wraps his arms around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, keeping one hand in his dark curls, forcing him against his shirt. When the boy tries to back out, his hold tightens. Angry words are drowned out against his chest but Jehan doesn’t let up. If Courfeyrac really wanted out, he could push Jehan away because his hands are curled up between their chests in shaking fists. Instead he moves them to cling to Jehans’ t-shirt and he screams. It’s muffled against Jehan but it still rips through his throat, through his chest, leaving them both trembling. He takes the breath to do it again but it gets caught into a choked sob. Jehan keeps him there, closing his eyes as Courfeyrac cries violently, leaving stains and wrinkles on his shirt, dirt on his knees. He rocks them gently, never making promises that it’ll be okay because where he doesn't agree with him, Courfeyrac's not wrong. So he stays there, keeps Courfeyrac close, rocking him, and ignores his own tears until he can get home and scream into his pillow the way Courfeyrac screams into his arms.   

     His anger fades to sadness and he doesn’t let go of Jehan’s hand as they walk to get coffee or when they listen to the nurse tell them it'll be a little longer than they anticipated or when they get more coffee. Courfeyrac doesn't let go of Jehan until they are standing in front of the doctor. The grip tightens as they listen to how the surgery had _minor complications_ before dropping to run through his hair, fear fueling new anger. Something about oxygen levels and the surgery being more difficult than they had hoped. Despite the doctor’s insistence that Enjolras should recover, as he’s already showing improvements, Courfeyrac pushes past him to get to Enjolras. To hold him, to help him, to feel for a pulse and see the nose crinkling smile.    

     Joly and Combeferre stop him. He fights against the hands pulling him back, screaming angrily and incoherently, eyes shut and tears falling down his red face because _Enjolras needs him, Enjolras isn't okay!_ Security is called but Bahorel and Feuilly step between them, allowing Combeferre the time to wrap his arms around Courfeyrac just as Jehan had. He ignores the way Courfeyrac hits him, shoving, fighting, and heaving for breath as they fall to the ground. He ignores the way he shakes and trembles in his arms, his screams echoing in the waiting room above security threatening calling the police and Bahorel challenging them, Feuilly trying to calm him down and Larose demanding everyone stop. Nothing stops until Courfeyrac runs out of breath in his fight against Combeferre and turns to weeping violently against his chest.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     There is a hint of doubt lingering in his stomach as he follows Larose up to the ICU room where Enjolras has been moved back to after his surgery. It sits coupled next to the fear, worry, and dread that he long ago grew accustomed to but never used to in the same way he’s no longer surprised he wakes up crying in the middle of the night yet sighs in disappointment when sleep still frightens him. The doubt is new and as they grow closer to Enjolras’ room, he forces himself to simply file it away along side the constant concern and stress that he deals with only in sleep. The knowledge that this is a horribly unhealthy way to handle his new life gets hidden under the doubt because if he focuses too long on it, he’ll panic as Courfeyrac had. Perhaps he can ignore it for enough time for Enjolras to laugh and tell him he’s okay. Then he won't have to be afraid anymore.    

     According to Larose, it will be some time before he’s capable of doing that. The boy in the bed only further encourages the doctor’s warnings. He’s paler than he had been in weeks, his head thrown back seemingly under the weight of the oxygen mask, and a new machine beeps regularly in the small room. Larose allows Combeferre the time to settle on the bed next to Enjolras and collect his hand before speaking. He sits on the chair opposite side of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, Enjolras file in his lap. His face is sober, foreboding almost but Combeferre only seems to dwell on the fact that they lost Courfeyracs’ second couch. _Avoidance_ , he explains to himself because Enjolras doesn’t squeeze his hand back and how can he focus on that without panicking.    

     The doctor starts explaining how his surgery brought an _unexpected drop in his vitals_ and the doubt grows because if he went to see Courfeyrac first, Enjolras may have been able to squeeze his hand before the panic grew so dense in his chest.    

     “He’ll have to wear a nasal cannula,” the doctor is saying, “until he can get enough oxygen on his own.”    

     “Meaning he’s weaker now than he was before the surgery.” Combeferre accidentally says out loud. The man nods, then seamlessly continues to explain the difference. Combeferre’s not listening anymore. He wants to ask why he allowed the surgery when Enjolras wasn’t strong enough to handle it. He wants to ask when Courfeyrac can come back. He wants his parents here. He needs Enjolras to wake up, to smile, to _fucking_ squeeze his hand before he forgets how to breathe because he’s starting to forget how to breathe. A hand grips his shoulder and when did the doctor stand up?    

     “He’ll recover from this, Combeferre.” He promises. “These complications were unpredicted yet there are easy solutions. His breathing is steady, albeit weak, and we should see improvements within days.”    

     “And if not? People die due to surgical complications.” Combeferre says. His voice sounds cold, even to himself. Distant, emotionless. He's already speaking of the dead.    

     “Occasionally, yes, but Enjolras is not going to die. The stress of the surgery took a lot of energy from him, more than we anticipated.” The beeper on his hip buzzes but it’s ignored. “But I assure you, Enjolras is not dying.”    

     The beeper buzzes again and Combeferre doesn’t want to keep him so he smiles and nods pretending the fear isn’t crippling. With a last squeeze of his shoulder and another promise that _he’ll recover_ the doctor leaves. Combeferre immediately regrets it because now he’s alone. He’s alone and scared, two things he’s never been. He brings Enjolras’ hand to his lips and kisses his fingers, promising Enjolras will never be alone and scared. “Because I’ll be here and Courfeyrac will be here. And everyone else. We're all here.” He tells Enjolras. “See? I'm not going anywhere.”    

     He doesn’t tell the unconscious blond that Courfeyrac had worked himself up to the point of passing out and is still kept under close watch. That would only serve to worry him. Enjolras has enough to worry about right now. _Like breathing_. And squeezing Combeferre’s hand. Larose found an empty room for Courfeyrac to ride out the rest of whatever the fuck just happened and Jehan is there. Jehan and Marius and Cosette. Certainly Joly is checking in and the others might have been able to sit with him. Combeferre is here with Enjolras and he may be scared and alone but it hides under the sight of his best friend and the weight of the hand in his own because he can’t cry. He can’t get scared. He can’t scream and shout and plead and hit something because that would leave Enjolras alone and Combeferre fucked up in June and he won’t do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	19. August 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Valjean

         It’s been two weeks since Enjolras’ surgery and Combeferre is only going home now. Joly suggested a night of rest at home a week ago, noting the dangerously dark circles under his eyes and how he staggers sometimes when he walks, moving around like someone getting up to pee in the middle of the night. But it’s taken Enjolras two weeks to recover enough to be moved back to the high dependency unit and it’s taken Combeferre two weeks to trust leaving him with Courfeyrac again and Joly knew suggesting it was futile. Still, they’ve all tried once. Éponine tried to convince him because this isn’t like June where Enjolras was unconscious the whole time. This is draining far more from Combeferre than when Enjolras was nearly dead. Not just physically, either. Where the pale skin and dull eyes are hard to look at, it’s worse to see his chest constrict every time Enjolras pulls at his hand or cries in frustration. His only response to her suggestion was a cold look, frightening and threatening, and Éponine didn’t bring it up again. She should have known better anyway.   

     However today is different. He’s meeting Enjolras’ speech pathologist in the afternoon and Combeferre will not be the scared, blubbering mess that he was when Larose first met him or panicky and angry like Courfeyrac. He’s going to be composed and capable and this doctor is going to see him as a partner, not just a patients’ childhood friend. Combeferre knows what he looks like. He knows what he smells like. To be there for Enjolras, he can’t look and smell as he does. Despite having access to the mostly empty long term patient rooms a few floors down, which have showers, a few floors down still seems too far away from Enjolras. Knowing he had to go home before meeting Valjean was hard enough, so Combeferre could skip showering for a few days if it meant keeping his promise to Enjolras for as long as he could. For Enjolras, who isn’t quite the same as he was two weeks ago.   

     With the surgery, it feels like he as both improved and worsened. When he’s awake and alert, he works harder to focus, follows conversations better, smiles when they smile, laughs when they laugh, even repeats some words with his own little damaged accent. The other side makes all that progress seem like a hopeful dream or a cruel joke. When he’s still groggy from sleep or getting tired, it’s as equally heartbreaking to watch as it is difficult to help. The few words he has become mumbled and slurred, the sign language he knows escapes him. He grows angry and irritable in his inability to communicate and can’t focus long enough to be comforted by Combeferre’s gentle words or distracted by Courfeyracs’. Then he’s quick to become flustered or distressed and the only thing Combeferre can do is sit with him, holding him as Enjolras cries into his shirt until he finally falls back asleep.    

     “I know it’s difficult to understand but this is a good thing.” Larose had said. “He’s frustrated because he has things to say but he’s unable to find the tools to convey it. The cognitive capability is there.”   

     “Will he regain the ability?” Combeferre asked after several seconds passed and the boys were processing that Enjolras’ tears and whimpers were good signs.    

     “Right now, I can only say I hope so. Once Dr. Valjean meets with him, we’ll know more.”    

     Courfeyrac didn’t like that answer and made it very clear. The doctor and Combeferre are the only ones not walking on eggshells around him but if he continues to move closer to the edge, Combeferre may reconsider stepping a little lighter or forcing him out all together until he can remember how to breath. He had come back to the room the morning after Enjolras’ surgery, head ducked low and tears dried. He gave Combeferre a brief, twitch of a smile to apologize for hitting him, for screaming and scaring him. Combeferre came around the bed to hug him, quick and tight. It was enough to say he understands but not too much to bring on a second episode. That was all that was said of the matter. For now, he’ll ignore his friends’ spiral because Enjolras is clinging to his shirt and shuddering in a rather restless sleep and they’re all feeling the floor shift under their feet with every morning they wake up in the hospital.   

     “So he just can’t figure out how to say it?” Combeferre asked, desperate to understand more. If he knows what the problem is, then maybe he can fix it.   

     “As far as I can tell, yes. Valjean will be able to explain it better.”   

     The day was set to meet and Combeferre pushed off leaving Enjolras’ until then because it would be a full day away from him. He reminded him every day leading up to it, hoping that somehow Enjolras would understand why he’s leaving him, that this will help him. The most he got in response was his mumbled name or a narrowed look of concentration. It’s starting to be harder and harder to not let his face fall in heartache or disappointment and there is no doubt Enjolras sees it. No matter how much it hurts, Combeferre has to leave because he needs to be put together and stable for the new doctor. He waits until Enjolras falls asleep with his head against Courfeyracs’ shoulder and Cosette reading on the couch. Courfeyrac is nothing but calm and joyous when in Enjolras’ room and he’ll stay there with Combeferre gone but everyone has seen the fleeting control in his eyes and no one wants him alone as much as they’d want Enjolras alone.        

     Éponine drives Combeferre home because he’d be a danger behind the wheel and before they turn out of the parking lot, he’s asleep against the window. She would take a longer route home, letting him catch up on much needed rest, but there’s no telling how upset he’d be if he lost time. When they’re home, she gentle wakes him up. The first thing he does is check the clock and she’s happy she drove straight home. His shower is quick and she gives him a few minutes to shave and get dressed before going in to force him to eat the sandwich she made earlier that day. She thought he’d eat it on the car ride home but sleep is equally as needed.    

     His bedroom door is slightly ajar and one peek in shows her boyfriend fast asleep on the bed in only his jeans. Quickly, she backtracks and pretends she didn’t see it. If she doesn’t see it, she can say she simply didn’t know he was sleeping. She’ll wake him up in half an hour.   

     The apartment has a distinct unlived feeling and it’s unsettled compared to how busy it used to be. There’s little food in the fridge and what is there is quickly growing new things with each passing day over the eat by date. She takes the time to throw out the old yogurts, forgotten milk, a mysteriously unmarked container of some kind of cheese. She wipes down the counters and puts away a few scattered pieces of clothes in a bin tucked under the table, then braves her way into Enjolras’ bedroom.    

     Éponine has seen the smallest of the three rooms a few times before the accident. On Sunday brunches, late night meetings, regrouping after protests. His door is always open, both physically and metaphorically. Those times, the color of the carpet has been, at best, a guessing game. Clothes, books, papers and magazines, forgotten water bottles, mismatching shoes, blankets and pillows all littered around his never made bed. His desktop was just as cluttered with work files, his old computer, books, coffee cups and plates. The only two things he actively made sure was easy to find and see was the yellow legal pads where he kept all his notes needed for whatever project Les Amis were working on and the photo frames strategically placed around the room.    

     Now there is nothing on the floor. There is nothing but his computer and the frames on his desk. His bookshelf is over stacked but neatly so and his bed is made. Jehan or Musichetta must be responsible for the room, quiet and clean, waiting for Enjolras to come home because she doesn’t think Courfeyrac would have thought Enjolras would want it any different. And where he might not, he will certainly need it. Éponines’ read the books and talked to the nurses. She’s learning everything she can about what to do when he does come home. As much she hates to be the devils advocate to Combeferre and Courfeyracs’ optimism, well the optimism that danced around them before the surgery because now it can’t really be called hopefulness, it can only help to have someone expect the worse. Still, for now because she can, she ignores the sinking feeling in her stomach and moves towards his dresser. It takes a few minutes but eventually she finds a few soft shirts, both long sleeves and short, and a pair of well loved flannel pajama pants. They have to be more comfortable than the stiff and scratchy hospital shirt and pants the hospital has him in now. She tucks sweats and a couple sweaters in the bottom drawer so she can easily find them when the weather starts to change.    

     Before she leaves the room, she wastes time studying each picture Enjolras has. She never would have him pegged for the one that would take time to print and frame a photo. A few are presents from Jehan or Grantaire, both boys with a twitchy camera finger and some he’s seen and asked for copies of but when she sees what the subjects are, it makes sense that he made sure to take care of those memories.    

     The first photo is one of all eight boys, before Marius or Grantaire joined them. They’re young, most likely their first year of school, and scattered around the upper room in the Musain. Everyone’s looking at the camera, ignoring school work and books in front of them. Enjolras is in the far left of the room sitting at the table he still sits at now, smiling with his head barely turned towards the camera as if he’s torn between smiling at his friends and not wanting to ruin the picture. The other picture there is of Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Marius, and Enjolras after the law firms softball game last year, all sweaty and stained red from playing with no less intensity than what they work with.    

     On his desk there is one with all of their friends lying in Jehan’s apartment, snuggled around each other, except Enjolras and Éponine remembers he’s the one that took the photo after accidentally changing most of the settings on Grantaires’ camera.   

     _“Why the fuck are you taking a video, Apollo?” Grantaire had called from the couch but never dropped his smile. It had turned from smile, there’s a camera to amused at the blonds’ inability to refrain from pushing just one button._

_“I’m not taking a video.” Enjolras responded distractedly. He didn’t sound like he really believed himself._

_“Yes you are. You have been for the last thirty seconds.”_

_“How in gods name could you possibly know that?”_

_Combeferre leaned in towards his friend to whisper, “The red recording light is on.”_

_The room erupted in laughter and Grantaire crossed to stand next to Enjolras, who only turned the camera around to see that a light was indeed betraying him. “Here, I’ll take the picture.”_

_“No.” He jerked the camera away like a child protecting a toy._

_“I don’t mind. Really.”_

_“No. Just fix the stupid thing and get back over there.” Enjolras demanded, shoving the camera to the artist. Grantaire smirked but complied, showing him the only button to push before going back to his seat to smile for Enjolras._

     Éponine’s sure Grantaire still has those photos and the video.    

     Next to it is a photo after their first protest. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Feuilly flushed with excitement and bloodied from the riot it turned into. Joly is smiling over his shoulder up from the corner of the screen where he is kneeling in front of Bossuet, taping a cut on his calf. The last photo on his desk is of Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac when they couldn’t have been more than ten years old. Bundled up in the snow, their heads are pressed together, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. Each look adorably young, that cute stage right before the awkward preteen years.    

     There are several through out his bookcase, all of different friends and different times over the years. More of he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac as kids. Most there are candid, catching Combeferres’ soft smile as he halfheartedly glares at the camera over his book, Jehan jumping on Courfeyracs’ back, Marius blushing and Feuilly laughing, Grantaire covered in paint. One of Gavroche on Enjolras' shoulders in a pool, both starting to flinch as Bahorel jumps in.    

     She feels her chest swell again and her smile grow. Tears threaten. The last three are her favorites and they must be Enjolras’ too as they sit right where he’d see them in the morning on his nightstand. One is from Christmas last year and she only recognizes Combeferre and Enjolras among the large family photo. Another is of everyone lying around in the grass on a lazy summer day and the last is nearly identical to the older photo on his desk. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras are standing in the snow, heads pressed together and grinning like idiots. The only thing different is they are in their twenties. She grabs it without thinking, along with the picture of everyone, tossing them in the bag with his shirts, and goes to wake up Combeferre to get back to Enjolras.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     “Valjean, this is Combeferre. Combeferre this is Dr. Jean Valjean. He’ll be overseeing Enjolras’ speech and comprehension rehabilitation while he’s here in the hospital.” Larose introduces the two, standing in the hall in front of Enjolras’ room. This new doctor looms over them ominously but his gentle smile off sets any nerves. Combeferre forces his hand to stop trembling long enough to shake hands. It physically aches to be away from Enjolras.    

     “He’s one of the best, Combeferre.” Joly informs softly.    

     “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Combeferre.” Valjean says politely. “Larose tells me you are his emergency contact?”   

     “One of them.”    

     “I also told him I believed it best if you were there for the first few sessions. Seeing as Enjolras can be a bit,” Larose hesitates, searching for the right word to prepare Valjean with the hope of remaining polite in front of his friends.    

     “A bit of a nightmare,” supplies Combeferre. He says it honestly with a hint of a smile, aiming to be taken by Enjolras’ new doctor seriously.   

     The small group laughs, Larose the loudest and agreeable while Valjean’s stays gentle and respectful. “Yes. I’d have to say that’s the best way to put it.” Turning to Valjean, he continues. “The boy is stubborn and gladly makes it known that he’s not happy here, meaning he’s very difficult when he has the energy to be.”    

     “And you believe Combeferre can help?” Valjean studies the boy in front of him. Not a flash of disbelief reaches his eyes, only general curiosity. “I’ve had parents sit in with young children before but not friends.”   

     “Trust me,” Larose says. “He’ll help.”   

     “Enjolras doesn’t love anything as much as he loves Combeferre.” Joly explains. He pats his friend on the back when Combeferre ducks his head modestly. “So he won’t listen to anyone as he will Combeferre.”   

     “Well that’s great then.” Valjean declares and Combeferre relaxes. He wasn’t sure why he was holding his breath, he didn’t even know Larose suggested his involvement, but a weight seems to have disappeared. “I’d love to see how it goes.”   

     “He’s scheduled for an MRI later this afternoon and it tends to stress him out so I’d like to let him rest after. Therefore today isn’t a good day to meet.” Larose explains, looking down at Enjolras’ file in his hands. “But I wanted to take the opportunity to introduce you both.”   

     Combeferre nods and Valjean flashes him a warm smile. He feels like the man is studying him, still out of mere curiosity than anything else but he’s grateful he gets to be there when the man meets Enjolras. If this is how he feels when they are just briefly meeting, he can’t imagine what it will be like when he’s assessing Enjolras’ mental capabilities.    

     “I’ll have a nurse page you when he’s ready for a meeting.” Larose is saying. He hands the file over, says his goodbyes, and walks down the hall with the new doctor, leaving Joly and Combeferre standing outside Enjolras’ door.   

     “And he’s the best?” Combeferre asks, turning to Joly.   

     “The best in the state.”   

     “Then he’ll help E get home?”   

     Joly hesitates before answering as carefully honestly as possible. “Hopefully.”   

     Combeferre nods slowly, thought flashing behind his glasses, before stalking back to Enjolras’ bedside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	20. August 14

     He can hear himself breathing. In with a shallow _whoosh_ and out with a short _puff_ into tube in his nose. It’s a terrible thing but every time he tries to pull it out it tugs painfully on his ears and a hand stops him, usually a friend with a small, disappointed smile. Instead, he just tries to breath through his mouth. Once he looks up, away from the tube crossing his chest, he forgets all about it and the _whooshing_ and _puffing_ becomes a steady rhythm in his ears. The girl is sitting on the bed, talking to him. Enjolras wishes he knew her name because she’s nice and smiles at him but not all the time like some of the nurses do. He doesn’t like those nurses. Sometimes the blond girl just talks, waving her hand distractedly as he sits and patiently listens, which earns him that big, bright smile when her story or rant or explanation fades and she pauses. She always sighs, then leans in to say something to him with a wink and a giggle. He likes the way her laugh sounds.

     She’s not the only one in the room today but she’s the only one talking. It’s just noise with no significance, easily enough to ignore and Enjolras looks past her with a heavy breath and a sharp _whoosh_. The table next to his bed is stocked high with things from his friends that cover his sight of the flashing machines behind it. There are happy sketches and brightly colored drawings, familiar photos and sweet smelling flowers. Little paper cranes are placed through the jungle of _things his friends gave him_. It makes him smile. He wants to reach out and look at the drawings, flip through the sketchbooks or actually smell the flowers but his right hand doesn’t move when he tries and he looks away, forgetting about it.   

     Bossuet is sitting on the couch, leaning forward and twitching his hand as he stares at Cosette. Enjolras squints his eyes, trying to see what he’s doing but his sight is foggy so he only blinks a few times before giving up. Apparently Bossuet's ability to pay attention has improved. He reaches out to grab his hand but his fingers smack against a knee. He follows the leg up to find Combeferre smiling at him. A smile spreads on his own face and his cheeks shift the tube. After twisting a little on the bed, he manages to intertwine their fingers. It keeps him from trying to pull the thing off his face.   

     He looks back around to his blond friend on the bed. The girl is doing something with her hand. It’s the same thing Bossuet is doing, although with more confidence and wait. He knows that. Knitting his brow, he leans forward, shifting on the bed a little. She’s done that before. His hand pulls out of Combeferres’ just enough to twitch his fingers against his friends’ palm, repeating the letters she signs to him. That’s an _h_. He glances up to her face, then back down. An _i_. _Hi_. And an _E_. That’s his name. _Hi, E._ Slowly, his gaze moves back up to her face. _I know that_ , he thinks. Or says. He can’t be sure because he mumbles something and it doesn’t sound like real words but Combeferre smiles and Bossuet looks up at him with a grin. He sees Éponine on the couch saying something with a short laugh. The girl in front of him smiles. C. Her name starts with a _c_. He pulls his hand away from Combeferre and repeats it back. _Hi. C._    

     Her jaw drops, the corners of her mouth twitching up in a surprised grin. It’s different than the other smiles and Combeferre leans his head back in a loud, breathy laugh of relief.  Enjolras misses it because he’s needs to know. He needs to ask. How he knows sign language isn’t important nor a concern because he needs to tell them first. Everything else can be asked later. His hands don’t respond as well as he remembers they used to but when he stares at them, he can force the letters. When he’s done spelling, he repeats it twice before looking up to the girl with raised, hopeful eyebrows.

     A breath leaves her like a physical blow. She drops her gaze, then looks up to him with a tilted head and watery eyes. She looks sad. Enjolras doesn’t like it. Gnawing on his bottom lip, he turns to Combeferre. His best friend collects his hand, bringing it up to kiss his fingers and Enjolras doesn’t like that answer. He shakes his head, pulling his hand out to ask Combeferre again.

     “What is that?” Bossuet asks, scooting up on the couch. “What did he just say?”  

     “Home,” answers Cosette softly. She doesn’t look away from Enjolras as he silently begs Combeferre. “He wants to go home.”   

     All the air seems to leave the room. Enjolras looks from Combeferre, to the blond on the bed, then back to his friend. He asks again and again until his signs blur together and tears fill his eyes. _Home. Home. Go home._    

     Combeferre shakes his head as an answer. Slowly, he signs out, _Months, E._    

     “No.” Enjolras says and he knows he said that one. He can hear it so he says it over and over again, throwing in his friends name as shortened pleas.

     “I’m sorry.” Combeferre says as he moves on to the bed to pull him in a hug. Enjolras knows those words, too. He hears them a lot. Despite not remembering why he’s here, he knows it can’t be their fault. All the people and friends and nurses who say _I’m sorry_ in that sad head tilting way. _Pity_ , he reminds himself. _That look is pity_. And, yeah that makes sense, he thinks as tears fall into Combeferre’s shirt and his friends hand cups the back of his neck. He likes when Combeferre holds him like this, like a promise that he’s being kept close.    

     It’s easy to ignore the sounds of the people around him talking when he can focus on the vibrations on his best friends strong chest. When Combeferre starts to drift away, his hands loosening, Enjolras won’t have him leave. He grips on to the front of his shirt and something like a screamed no escapes, mostly muffled from where he’s trying to stay in Combeferres’ hold and his other friends leave. He doesn’t notice because _Combeferre is leaving_. He shouts again but it sounds more like a whimpered cry and he reminds himself not to do that. It sounds pitiful. But then Combeferre is completely gone and Enjolras’ eyes are shut and tears fall, the bed is vast and cold and he forgets to be strong. His breathing sounds louder, echoing in his ears and he pulls at the tube, not caring how bad it hurts his ears because if he pulls hard enough it’ll go away. He can hear himself cry, feel his chest heavy in a soft whimpering sound, so he screams instead. There are sudden hands on his, the tube is replaced, and the bed shifts. He knows it’s Combeferre. Enjolras turns in as much as he can, no longer screaming because _Combeferre is here_ , lying on the strong chest and gripping at his shirt so he won’t leave again.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

     The apartment smells like cinnamon, peanut butter, and wine. Occasionally a soft whiff of Cosettes’ shampoo or the metallic paint from Feuilly’s work shirt shifts through the room. There are chocolate chips scattered across the kitchen island that are slowly being picked away by each passing handful and dusts of flour floating in the lights between the cabinets and the counter. Jehan watches from the island where his forgotten book lies surrounded by sweet bites, food stained recipes, wine bottles, and coffee mugs. The apartment is full and the kitchen is active but it’s quiet. Silent, almost, outside of the occasional flipping page of a book or sneeze followed by a bless you.    

     Bossuet is sitting on the counter, swinging his legs dangerously wide but Musichetta easily steps around him, occasionally stealing worried glances in his direction. He’s quiet, not doing anything but staring at the floor and has been for the last hour. Cosette and Marius are studying for school at the table while Feuilly reads on the couch. They slept here last night, as did the others. Pillows and blankets pile high in the corner between two bookshelves, unfolded because they’ll just be used again tonight. Jehan isn’t sure how or when everyone started migrating here when the sun fell but he’s grateful for it. Sometimes Courfeyrac comes over, usually after everyone else has fallen asleep, and he curls up to Jehan. It doesn’t happen often and the small tremors that run through Courfeyrac’s hands keeps Jehan awake but it’s the best sleep he gets and he finds himself staying up just in case.   

     The stove timer buzzes and suddenly the kitchen is filled with his friends, rocking on their toes to steal the first bite of whatever Musichetta’s pulling out of the oven this time. They’re small, soft, and peanut buttery. She smacks Marius’ hand away from the tray with a dumfounded reminder that he just saw her pull it out so _do you want to burn yourself?_    

     A light conversation sparks as they wait for it to cool or for Musichetta to turn her back. They're easy, safe topics about Cosette’s new classes and Marius’ thoughts on law school but it comes to a dead stop when Bossuet speaks. He says it looking at his feet hanging off the edge of the counter and only looks up when he’s done and realizes it’s silent. “I’m starting to reconsider our _no contact_ policy with that asshole.”   

     He doesn’t have to explain which asshole, they all know it’s the cop.   

     Cosette looks down, staring at the way the cookies start to deflate a little as they cool. She doesn’t have a place in this conversation and can only offer her logical reasoning or gentle comfort should it be needed. Otherwise, she’ll let them decide what to do and try to ignore the way Enjolras’ cries ring in her ears and sways her opinion. Feuilly is the first to respond, running a hand through his soft red hair before composing an answer. They don’t ask what’s changing his mind. They’ve all seen Enjolras. “What do you suggest, then?”   

     “I don’t know.” Bossuet says, throwing his head back against the cabinet to look up. “Something. We have to do something.”   

     “Combeferre and Courfeyrac don’t want us to do anything. They made that very clear.” Jehan reminds.    

     “Ask Courfeyrac now.” Marius snorts and it earns him a narrowed look from Jehan but he holds it. The poet looks away first, knowing Marius is right.    

     They fall quiet, everyone looking down at their hands. It’s not a time for decisions but as the gnawing uselessness grows, their fingers twitch more and more for action. Feuilly looks up to speak but his words fall as the door swings open. Everyone turns to watch as Grantaire stands with his back to them, pushing against someone, Bahorel by the sound of the voice. With one hefty shove, the artist falls into the apartment but is quick to jump to his feet and push back against the large man. Éponine follows, closing and locking the door before turning to her friend. His face is red from the effort, tears running down his cheeks, and blood on his lip from catching an elbow just the same as Bahorel’s nose is bleeding but they both ignore the blood.    

     “I want him to see!” Grantaire is screaming, his throat raw from the volume. “I want him to see what he’s destroyed!”    

     Bahorel shoves him again and he staggers backwards before turning on his heel and stalking to Jehan’s bedroom with his hands in his hair, leaving a path of tears and blood. Éponine follows. After the echoing slamming door, Bahorel turns to the crowd in the kitchen. He gratefully accepts the towel from Cosette to wipe the blood off his nose and takes a cookie off the tray without a word. Feuilly and Marius turn to Bossuet.

    “I’ll talk to Courfeyrac tomorrow.” He says, resolution in his voice. For the first time since he got home from the hospital, his feet still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	21. August 15

     “Hey, can I have a word?” Bossuet asks by the door, indicating it’s one to be had outside. Both Musichetta and Éponine move into the room carrying containers of freshly baked food. Courfeyrac tosses his work aside and Combeferre starts to extract himself from Enjolras’ hold. When Enjolras feels him begin to shift, he tightens his grip on Combeferre’s shirt but doesn’t lift his head.    

     “I’ll be right back.” He promises, leaning in to kiss his forehead before parting completely and following his two friends out, only pausing to kiss Éponine in a brief greeting. At the door he turns to reassure Enjolras one last time that he won’t be long. Enjolras watches him leave, shifting his head on the pillow around Musichetta, who sits on the side of the bed, until the door closes. His face pinches against confused tears.

     “Hey, no.” Musichetta says softly, leaning towards Enjolras who turns to stare at her. “Are we doing that because we’re just waking up or falling asleep?”   

     “Just waking up.” Éponine answers distractedly as she waters the plant on his nightstand. She looks over her shoulder to her friend when she doesn’t get a response. Musichetta has her elegant eyebrows raised at her. With a shrug, hoping for casual against whatever point Musichetta is making, Éponine explains. “Combeferre wouldn’t have left if he was trying to fall asleep.”   

     Musichetta only nods her head slowly and smirks in that annoying knowing why both she and Jehan have of doing. The other girl rolls her eyes, shaking her head with a smile she can’t bite back, before going back to the plant. On the bed, Enjolras is still staring at Musichetta, his expression innocent and open. His confusion clear in his wide eyes, flinching ever so softly at the threatening tears, and his interest caught in the way he studies her face.   

     “Well,” she says, leaning in a little. “We are going to question Éponine about that later but first we are going to get rid of those tears.” She reaches over and pulls one of the smaller containers to her lap. At the mention of his friend’s name, Enjolras searches the room, smiling a little when he spies Éponine digging through his backpack on the floor. She looks up, winks at him, then goes back to find the shirt she’s looking for. When Musichetta speaks again, he turns back. “I know I’m no Combeferre so I brought your favorites to make up for it.”   

     He looks at the open container suspiciously, craning his neck subtly before glancing up to Musichetta. There is thought behind his face, quiet and easy to read, and Musichetta is struck by how young he looks. He reaches out slowly, as if cautious of her, and pulls the container into his lap. Musichetta helps him, setting it so it doesn’t spill over and watches carefully as Enjolras studies it’s for a long minute before pulling out a peanut butter cookie. She grins, releasing a nervous breath, because she knows it’s his favorite. They were never close, Musichetta and Enjolras, before the fall. She was always his friends’ girlfriend, the girl who he banters wittily with behind the counter at the Musain while she makes his coffee. Their relationship was fun, easy, based off little more than mutual friends and his obsession with her food and coffee. Musichetta aims to change this now.   

     Enjolras takes a bite of the cookie, smiling slightly at her. She beams proudly. She’s not above bribing him. After shifting more comfortably on the bed, content that her treats worked, she leans in again and starts talking. She keeps her words slow but steady, talking more to the room than him directly but she keeps eye contact because she’s going to be here for him and he’s going to know that their relationship is more than just mutual friends. “So, what do you know about this whole Combeferre and Éponine thing? Joly thinks Combeferre’s in it for her family name and she’s clearly there just for that fine ass.”    

     It earns a heatless glare from Éponine, Musichetta winks in her direction. Enjolras watches the exchange in between bites of his cookie, a bit worrisome at first before Éponine rolls her eyes and he knows it’s good natured. He turns back to Musichetta, who’s still teasing her, and raises his eyebrow in a small, amused smile. It shifts both scars against his soft, pale skin. They are fading in color now, more pink than red and Musichetta likes how they look like they are framing his sharp blue eye.   

     Éponine comes over to the bed, holding the new shirt in her hand, and kisses Enjolras on the forehead. He leans into the touch, then offers her some of his cookie. After taking a piece off with a _thank you_ in sign language, she says, “Chetta thinks she’s funny.”   

     “And I will continue to think that until proven wrong.”   

     “I don't think you're funny.”   

     “Enjolras thinks I’m funny.”    

     “He doesn’t know what you are saying, so maybe he just thinks you look funny.” She says with a mean girl tilt of her head, laughing as Musichetta slaps her hand against her chest in feigned offense. Enjolras flinches at the noise and searches her face in a quick panic until she reaches out and squeezes his arm apologetically, still continuing her conversation with Éponine seamlessly. “Éponine is avoiding the question.” She tells Enjolras, who narrows his eyes in concentration.    

     “Ponine.” He says softly. The girls pause, staring at him in a surprised silence. Éponine collects his face in her hands to bring him close and he says it again, before leaning his forehead against hers.   

     “That’s the first time he’s said my name.” She says when they part and Enjolras goes back to the box in his lap as if that didn’t just bring happy tears to her eyes.   

     “I wonder if it’s because Combeferre talks about you.”    

     Éponine snaps her head to Musichetta but softens her gaze when she sees there is not hint of teasing in her big green eyes. She looks back to Enjolras, watching as he grows excited about the large slice of cinnamon bread at the bottom. The giddy, lovestruck grin on her face grows, making her feel dumb but she likes the thought of Musichetta being right and Musichetta is always right about stuff like this. She doesn’t repeat her name around him like Jehan did until he started to say it and she’s not his _Ferre_ or _Courf_. She’s just Éponine, there for Combeferre and doing her best behind the scenes to make everything easier. To think that Combeferre talks about her and Enjolras listens makes her bottom lip tremble with emotion.    

     She turns to Musichetta, giddily admitting, “I think he likes me.”   

     “Awe, you are such a girl.” Musichetta coos.    

     “Shut up.” Éponine punches her in the arm lightly but continues to smile, blushing, and thinking about how she loves the weight of Combeferre’s hand in her own.   

     “I think it’s precious,” says Musichetta. It pulls Éponine away from the dreamy gaze she set on the shirt in her hands. “Don’t you, E?”   

     Enjolras looks up from his container, then looks back down with a sigh. He runs his hand over his face, rubbing a palm roughly against the sleep in his eye as he starts to wake up more. He gets distracted by the scar over his eyebrow, running his fingertips along it’s length then scratching at the ridges the stitches left. Éponine sits on the other side of the bed, pulling his hand away. It tightens in her grip as a raised voice suddenly seeps through the walls. It sounds like Courfeyrac. Musichetta glances over her shoulder at the closed door and Enjolras tugs on Éponine’s hand.    

     “Courf.” He says, his breathing picking up as Courfeyrac’s angry voice echoes through again. Musichetta gets up and moves to the door. When she creaks it open, Enjolras cranes his head to see. He doesn’t get a good view and he shifts restlessly on the bed. He doesn’t see Combeferre breathing heavily or Courfeyracs’ hands buried in his hair.    

     “Hey,” Musichetta calls towards the three boys. “Either lower your voices or take it somewhere else.” Her voice is light but her threat clear and she gently closes the door.    

     Outside in the hall, the three take deep breaths to calm themselves. Courfeyracs’ hands drop to his hips and Combeferre crosses his over his chest. Bossuet licks his bottom lip, looking from Combeferre to Courfeyrac. “If this is a bad time,” He trails off with a tilt of his head.   

     “It will never be a good time for this.” Combeferre says bitterly.    

     “So we might as fucking well do it now.” Courfeyrac snaps, glaring at his friend who rolls his eyes and shakes his head at the fight brewing again. “You know you are itching for it, Combeferre.”   

     “No, I’m not. All I want is to get Enjolras home. I thought that is what we agreed on.”   

     “This is bigger than what we normally deal with,” reminds Bossuet. “The more we realize how long of a fight it will be for Enjolras the more our hands yearn to right it.”   

     “There is no value in taking it out on the cop.”    

     “Not by monetary means nor in helping Enjolras recover quicker.” Bossuet agrees.    

     “Then why the need?”   

     “To right the wrong, Combeferre.” Courfeyrac states. “To send a message that police aren’t allowed to get away with excess force against unarmed protesters.”   

     “It wasn’t a legal protest, Courf. We didn’t have permits to be there. Everyone knew there was a risk. Especially Enjolras.”   

     “This was the fucking risk you knew, Combeferre?” Courfeyrac points to Enjolras’ door. “This is what you planned for?”   

     “You know what I meant.”   

     “No, I don’t. I don’t see how you can think this a simple risk, Combeferre.” Before Combeferre can respond, Courfeyrac’s voice raises. “He has destroyed Enjolras’ life!” His voice cracks but his jaw sets firmly. “He has killed parts of him! If it were any of us, Enjolras would already have the man’s badge and a public fucking apology from the police station. Not sitting on our ass, useless to him as he has to relearn how to fucking breathe!”   

     Combeferre should question how that plan is useful to Enjolras or what they gain in attacking an entire police force. There is no court case, no money to be won, only wrongs to right with an eye for an eye. Combeferre should say this easily, evenly with the hope of calming his friend down and forcing him in seeing the logical side of his argument but instead he snaps. He snaps bitterly and angrily, aiming low and aiming to hurt. “If it were any of us, Enjolras wouldn’t be as big of an emotional disaster as you are.”   

     Courfeyrac’s jaw drops and he flinches back. “I’m upset, not a disaster.” He says quietly.   

     “Yes you are! You are a lia-fucking-bility and even if I agreed with going after the cop I wouldn’t send you in a hundred years because I know you can’t handle it!”   

     “You don’t have any right to _send_ me!” Courfeyrac counters, closing the gap between him and Combeferre. “We are not your fucking soldiers ready to do your bidding.”   

     “I am the acting leader of _Les Amis_ when Enjolras is out of commission.” Combeferre matches his stance, speaking quietly in a threatening tone Bossuet’s never heard outside of protests. It sends chills along his arms. This is spirally quicker than he can prevent. “I am the deciding voice in what we do with the cop. If you do not agree with me, you can leave. And if you leave, you can do as you please with the cop but you will not be allowed to see Enjolras again.”   

     Bossuet can see the exact moment Courfeyrac cracks. His trembling hands still, his breathing steadies. Before Bossuet can step between them, save them from destroying themselves, Courfeyrac shoves Combeferre. The taller man stumbles back a step, neither surprised nor shocked, and he is quick to return the push with a frightening narrowing of his eyes. Bossuet tries to part them but it escalates faster than he thought possible between the two friends and the hits are quick, the fighting fierce with all the built up rage and anger and fear releasing and increasing in each punch. He is pushed aside as the other two fall to the ground, Combeferre pinning Courfeyrac, only to get one punch to his jaw before they flip and Courfeyrac has the advantage. He gets two quick right hooks before Bossuet wraps him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side, and pulls the irishman back.    

     Enjolras’ door flings open and Éponine gasps, hesitating only for a second in shock before pushing Combeferre back from where he’s trying to go after Courfeyrac again. He presses to pass her but doesn’t push her aside. He doesn’t touch her and lets her keep him back with the soft, familiar hands on his chest, her shoves far from the strength of Courfeyrac’s.    

     “What the hell are you doing?” She shouts, pushing him further back with each word. Courfeyrac is screaming, kicking against Bossuet’s iron grip and they fall to the ground a second time but Bossuet doesn’t let go. “Are you trying to get kicked out of the hospital? It’s Courfeyrac! What the fuck are you thinking, Combeferre? Is this worth leaving him alone?”    

     She emphasizes each question with a stronger shove and on the last one he stumbles backwards, falling to the cold hospital floor. His chest constricts and tears fall, blinding him. The only thing he can hear is the screams of his friend as the nurses and doctors arrive to force him calm. Combeferre drops his head to his hands, as if he could force the tears back and if he presses hard enough, maybe, just maybe, he can go back in time. Back to three minutes ago to where he should have just collected Courfeyrac in a hug or twenty minutes ago to say no to Bossuet and stay with Enjolras. Weeks ago to push back the surgery. A month ago to take care of the cop because god knows Combeferre wants to take care of the fucking cop. Three months ago so he could just stand where he was supposed to be, where Enjolras thought he was going to be, where Enjolras trusted him to be. The only thing that happens is his tears fall harder, his shoulders shake violently, and his own screams and sobs fill his ears because he can’t fix any of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	22. August 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just broke up the last chapter so it's split the way I had written it.

     A firm hand hooks under his arm and heaves him up. The doctors face appears after a few forced blinks and he immediately starts apologizing and pleading, fear holding his lungs as he is led away from Enjolras’ room. In french, he screams for Enjolras, promising he’ll be back. When the door is out of sight, he still shouts until Courfeyrac’s voice echoes from in front of him, his own french laced with tears and his irish accent. _This is how I think Enjolras would handle this happening to one of us_. It ends in a breathy laugh and Combeferre chokes out a laugh, agreeing and finally letting Larose lead him although making it clear that he still will not leave without a fight. They follow where a large man is pulling Courfeyrac by both arms with threats of throwing him over his shoulder if he continues to struggle. It takes Combeferre a few minutes to recognizing the man as Dr. Valjean. Enjolras’ speech pathologist. They must have been on their way to meet him when they stumbled upon the two friends fighting each other. _So much for being reliable,_ Combeferre thinks. _Man, he’s fucked up now_.

     They are set down in a rather large office in plush chairs in front of Larose’s desk. It is a shockingly familiar feeling to the many times they have sat in principals offices. Only Enjolras is missing. Blood drips down Courfeyrac’s nose and Combeferre’s lip is split in two places. A dark bruise is forming on the ones eye and the others jaw. They share a look, then drop their gaze back down to their laps. As the adrenaline and anger fade, they are just tired, ready to curl up with Enjolras and sleep. No words are needed but by the way Larose motions for Valjean to stay, he sits quietly on the corner of the desk, and Larose sits in his chair facing the boys words are going to be had.

     “I have the right to pull your names off as his emergency contacts if I believe you’re unable to make rational decisions.” The doctor starts in an even tone. He sounds as tired as they feel.

     “We can make rational decisions.” Combeferre states, matching his tone. It surprises both doctors that the children are in such control.

     “Fighting in the hospital is not a rational decision.”

     “That was different.” Courfeyrac counters, both settling on a defense. “We weren’t making decisions for Enjolras.”

     “We were hitting each other,” clarifies Combeferre evenly and Larose has to laugh. Even now with the others blood drying on their knuckles, they are a team for Enjolras and against outside threats.

     “Which is a decision that would normally lead to you getting kicked out of the hospital.” Larose explains and they both shift in their seats, scooting up to argue their combined defense.

     “We weren’t thinking.” Courfeyrac says first.

     “It won’t happen again.”

     “It’s out of our system, we promise.”

     He holds up his hand to silence them but Combeferre adds one last quiet defense. “Please, you can’t leave him alone.”

     Valjean tilts his head curiously, surprised that even now with the threat of being forced out of the hospital they aren’t arguing for themselves. Larose sighs, his shoulders sagging under the plead. “You can’t keep putting me in this position. I understand the emotion after his surgery but this? What the fuck was this about?”

     “Words were exchanged.” Combeferre shrugs.

     “Tempers rose,” adds Courfeyrac.

     “Enough bullshit. What could possibly bring you to fighting?”

     The boys share a look, trying to determine if the truth is best or not. Combeferre looks away first, asking, “Honestly?”

     “Yeah, that would be nice.” The doctor snaps dryly.

     Courfeyrac lets Combeferre start, still not sure if he’s going to stick to the truth. “We were fighting about what to do with the cop.”

     “What cop?” Larose pinches his brow. Before making the connection and leaning towards them with wide eyes. “The cop that hit him?”

     “Yes, sir. You see, I want to break his face.” Courfeyrac says easily.

     “And I would prefer to wait until Enjolras can decide.”

     Larose shakes his head. “That is not a rational decision to be making.”

     “We run an organization called _Les Amis_.” Combeferre explains. “We mostly do protests and focus on education reform but occasionally we have to handle things a little quieter when the police look the wrong way. That’s actually our specialty.”

     “We help the people in our neighborhood. We save people, right wrongs, fix things,” adds Courfeyrac. “Enjolras brought us all together. He’s our chief and now it’s time to right this.”

     “The police mentioned that when I was filing out the paperwork.”

     Combeferre sighs. “We don’t have a great relationship with the police. They believe we are rabble rousers and vigilantes but we change things.” He insists. “Enjolras changes things.”

     “This is the deal.” Larose says, sitting up in his seat. “You will not fight in my hospital again, you will not raise your voices in my hospital, and for as long as you want to see Enjolras here, in my hospital, you will not do anything to the cop.”

     “But no one else will. This is what we do.” Courfeyrac says, brow furrowing in disagreement.

     “And look where that’s gotten you.” Valjean speaks up for the first time. They all look to him.

     “You don’t understand, Doctor.” Combeferre tells him. “ _Les Amis_ has made the world a better place. Enjolras has made it a better place. You can’t judge an entire organization for one cops rash decision.”

     “Of course not,” Larose agrees and it pulls their attention back to him, “but those are my terms that I believe are best for my patient. If I hear so much as a whisper about the cop, I will not call the police. I will shut Enjolras’ door to you.”

     “You are effectively shutting us down.” Combeferre’s chest tightens.

     “I am forcing you to rethink your choice of action.”

     “Actions that demand change! We won’t settle for indifference.” He stands up, slamming his hands on the doctor’s desk and Courfeyrac smiles because he looks as righteous as Enjolras.

     “Then you will not see Enjolras.” Larose says simply.

     Combeferre jerks back like Larose had shot him. He drops his gaze, then looks to Courfeyrac. _It’s not what Enjolras would want_ , his friend tells him in french, feeling the ache of the ropes around their wrists. The doctors share a curious quick look at the sudden language change but wait patiently.

 _It doesn’t matter_. Combeferre decides. _Not if it means we can’t be there for him._

     He waits until Courfeyrac nods, agreeing to the painful ultimatum because they don’t have any other options. Enjolras is the only thing that actually matters. Knowing how much he fucked up again, Combeferre cringes internally. Softly, he tells the doctor this. “I’m not leaving Enjolras.”

     “Neither am I.” Courfeyrac says quickly.

     Dr. Larose nods, smiling at them. “Good. Now get a nurse to clean you up before going back to his room.”

     They leave quickly, only stopping by a bathroom to clean their hands.

     “We shouldn’t have told him the truth.” Combeferre admits regrettably. They both focus on the quickly turning red sink beneath their hands.

     “It’s not worth the risk of lying. If he saw through it, he may not trust us enough to let us stay.” Courfeyrac responds, slightly distracted over a particularly stubborn amount of blood under his thumb nail. “Plus, it’s exactly what you wanted, right? Forget the cop, focus on Enjolras.”

     “Then why doesn’t it feel good?”

     Courfeyrac looks up at him, their eyes meeting in the mirror. He thinks for a moment before trying a few suggestions. “Because Enjolras would be disappointed? Because we’re washing each others blood off our hands? Because some authority figure forced us to the decision?”

     Behind his glasses, which thankfully stayed safe in the scrap, his hazel eyes drop in thought. “You’re right. We haven’t been doing anything since he was admitted anyway. Not much will change, just this one thing.”

     “Feuilly and Bossuet can lead the other assignments when we’re here.” Courfeyrac turns off the water and grabs a few paper towels for wipe the blood from his nose. “Just because we have to stay away from the cop doesn’t mean we have to stop all the other work.

     Combeferre nods his agreement, realizing it’s not as dreadful as it all feels and surprised at his friends ability to compose himself because Courfeyrac must understand this. _Les Amis_ is Enjolras’ life work and one target slipping through their fingers won’t destroy that, not in the way that one cop had the power to destroy their lives. He smiles softly at his friend, small and apologetic. “Sorry about your face.”

     “It’s alright. You should see the other guy.” Courfeyrac jokes, motioning to the dried blood on Combeferre’s lip. He licks the cuts, then wipes the blood away. When he looks back at his friend, he laughs. He drops his head and holds on to the sink to laugh, hysterical and loud, echoing in the bathroom. Courfeyrac’s face knits in concern before he chuckles. He chuckle turns to a soft giggle, then an equally all consuming laugh, bringing tears to his eyes.

     They end up on the floor, backs against the bathroom wall, shoulders pressed together. Eventually the laughter subsides to soft tears. Combeferre stares at the corner of a tile but hears Enjolras’ screams and Courfeyrac at his thumbs that rest in his lap but sees the scars on Enjolras’ face.

     “I can’t fix this.” Combeferre admits in a soft whisper. “I can’t fix him.”

     “No one can.”

     “That’s a stupid answer.” He tells him.

     They’re quiet for a beat before Courfeyrac snorts out a laugh and Combeferre chuckles. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

     “I just,” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose, slick with tears. “I just want to know what to do or what to say. I keep thinking that there’s something that I’m missing. Something I can do to make him feel better, to get him home faster.”

     “It helps when you hold him. When you talk to him and squeeze his hand. Just being there for him.” Courfeyrac explains softly, dropping his head to his friends’ shoulder. A smile twitches on his face when Combeferre rests his cheek against his hair.

     “Do you think he’s scared?”

     Courfeyrac thinks before answering. “Not when someone’s with him. I’m sure that makes it easier.”

     “Someone’s always with him.”

     “Then he’s never scared.”

     “I’m afraid I’d kill him.” Combeferre admits suddenly. “The cop. I’m afraid of how much I’m okay with him dying for what he did to Enjolras. Every time he struggles over a word, I hear his speeches. Every time he cries when I leave the room, I remember he’s been on his own since he was seventeen. And now? I don’t even know if he can say his name.”

     “But we’re here.” His friend says, as if that’s clearly the answer to Combeferre’s worries. “We’re here and he’s here and where it’s never going to be the same, he will be home. With us. Whether it be one month or six months. Then, we’ll find a new normal. So, come on.” Courfeyrac stands, then pulls Combeferre up with him. “Let’s go see him.”

     They walk slowly, patiently almost, but once in the room, Combeferre goes straight to Enjolras with quick strides, scooping him up in to a fierce hug. Courfeyrac smiles at Bossuet, patting his arm reassuringly. He sits next to him on the couch and tells him quietly, “We leave it for now. Enjolras is the priority.”

     Bossuet nods, looking to the bed where Enjolras is running his thumb over Combeferre's split lip, worry evident in the way he knits his brow. Combeferre reassures him, then asks if he wants to go for a walk. He only has the energy to walk from the bed to the couch, anything more requires a wheelchair. Three months ago, Enjolras would pitch a fit about being rolled around but now the only thing Enjolras likes more than going for walks is seeing his friends. It's clearly a tactic to distract him and it works well. The blond grins madly, the cuts are forgotten. Bossuet happily walks next to Enjolras on his way out, kissing his friend on the head before kissing Musichetta with a promise to be home soon. He should go home but maybe, if he looks through the case file hard enough, long enough, slowly enough, then maybe he can find something that will help.


	23. August 22/23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean meets his new patient.

       Enjolras is trying. He’s trying really fucking hard. He studies the doctors mouth, the direction of his eyes, the way his hands move with the pen between his fingers. _Larose is his name_ , Enjolras reminds himself. His hand twitches out the letters. See, he’s trying. Even when the air conditioning whirls to life and it steals his attention away he tries. Or how he loses track of who’s speaking when Combeferre turns his back to Enjolras in order to close the window. He’s trying but when his eyes are open his vision is blurry and when he blinks to clear them he sometimes forgets to open them up again. He’s tired and his arm itches. There’s a shiver he can’t get rid of. That horrible breathing still echoes around him. He wants Combeferre to explain things to him, to tell him everything’s going to be alright, to curl up with him and make promises he can’t understand. His eyes keep closing on their own accord but still, he’s trying.

    They’re words, not just sounds, and Enjolras knows these words. He knows each word Combeferre says and almost all from the doctor, _Larose_ , but he can’t place a definition to any of them. As if listening to a foreign language he studied in elementary school, the significance of the dialogue passes by him but the recognition of the words don’t. It’s a horrible feeling because he’s trying so damn hard and the doctor is saying something that requires serious, steady eye contact with Combeferre and his best friend is nodding his head in that slow _I’m listening but don’t agree_ kind of way he has of doing. Enjolras has been on the other side of that look many times. Instead of the usual knowing smirk that Combeferre gives Enjolras when he earns himself that face, he looks distraught. He looks unsettled and that’s wrong. The doctor looks exasperated. It’s not a happy conversation. Enjolras needs to know why because surely it has to do with him and it’s making Combeferre upset. If it’s about him, maybe he can fix it.    

    Combeferre let’s go of Enjolras’ hand to clean his glasses with the hem of his shirt. They aren’t dirty, but it gives him time in the conversation to think before looking back up to the doctor to say something that looks combative. Enjolras moves to get his hand back but Combeferre is just out of reach. The doctor sees it. He offers Enjolras a warm, sympathetic smile. Enjolras glares at him.    

    “I don’t understand,” Combeferre is saying. “He doesn’t have to have any more surgeries. There’s no further medical attention he needs that we can’t give him at home.”   

    “His condition is still very unstable, Combeferre.”   

    “Not so unstable that we can’t monitor him. _At home._ His oxygen levels are low but normal now and his vitals are steady. He’s speaking and understanding more every day. He may not even need to meet Valjean.”   

    The doctor sighs. Before responding, he takes the time to sit down opposite of Combeferre. Enjolras reaches out again, his fingers just barely brushing his best friends hand. With the two fingers he can get, he grips as tightly as he can manage, which isn’t much, but Combeferre readjusts their hands so they are intertwined again. Enjolras clings, Combeferre holds. The doctor smiles again and this time Enjolras doesn’t have the energy to glare. He turns to stare out the window, no longer trying to follow the conversation.    

    “I understand this is frustrating. I have been with you and Enjolras since the start, Combeferre, and believe me when I say I only want what is best for him.”   

    “How is being alone in an unfamiliar, uncomfortable environment what’s best for him?” Combeferre asks. He interrupts the doctors response and leans forward aggressively. “How is that better than being home with his family?”   

    “I can’t help him if he’s home. And if I understand correctly, Joly talked to you about this.” The older man says as he crosses his arms over his chest like its his most powerful point. Combeferre falls back in his chair and rolls his eyes, looking away from the doctor. He makes sure to keep Enjolras’ hand in his own, though. “If you won’t listen to Joly now, when his opinion matches those of the experienced doctors, what makes the difference when he’s home and something goes wrong? Would you be able to make the decision to bring him back?”   

    Combeferre looks offended. “Of course! I’d do whatever needs to be done.”   

    “Then what is stopping you from seeing that he needs to be here?”   

    “I just want him to be happy.” He says quietly in defeat. The boy turns Enjolras’ hand over in his own and traces the lines on the inside of his palm. “And I know he’s not happy here.”   

    “Combeferre,” starts the doctor in a low, kind voice. “In order for him to be happy, we must first make sure he’s healthy.”   

    “How long then?” Combeferre nods solemnly. “How long until I can take him home?”   

    “It’s impossible to say right now.”   

    “Because of the brain damage or the recovery for his arm?”   

    “Both. The arm took serious reconstruction, as you know, and will require tedious physical therapy. The brain damage, however, is far more severe than we originally predicted.”   

    “In the last week alone, he’s improved. He was saying _yes_ and _please_ all day yesterday.”   

    “Yes, but we won’t know the specific damage until Valjean starts his sessions with him. There is no telling how far the injury reaches.”    

    Combeferre knits his brows. “Meaning?”   

    “Right now, we only know what he can tell us, which isn’t much. Clearly his speech and comprehension suffered significant damage but the fall could have affected anything from his memory to his personality. He hasn’t even been awake long enough for Valjean to meet him.”    

    “That’s not Enjolras’ fault.” He’s quick to defend.   

    “Of course it’s not. Tomorrow is Saturday and Valjean is going to come in specifically to see Enjolras.” The beeper on his hip buzzes and the older man apologizes before saying, “Look, Combeferre.” He points to their conjoined hands. “It doesn’t matter where he is. It only matters that you are here for him. That you all are here for him. If you put too much weight on where he could be as opposed to where he is now, you can’t help him.”   

    He leaves with that advice and Combeferre sighs heavily. He lets his head fall dramatically on to Enjolras’ hand, smiling in to the way his friend curls his fingers against his forehead. When he looks up, Enjolras is staring at him. There is concern in his wide blue eyes and something like fear in his creased forehead. A tear carves it’s way down one cheek while more slide over the scar under his eye. Combeferre is quick to wipe the tear away with a gentle thumb then carefully climbs on the bed with the promise _it’s okay, everything’s okay_. The blond shifts just right so he can curl against his best friend like they do every evening.    

    Once Enjolras is resting on his shoulder, Combeferre kisses the top of his head then rests his cheek on the short, soft blond hair. Enjolras relaxes into the familiar security he associates with his best friend. It’s only a few minutes before he’s asleep. Combeferre bends his head to see Enjolras sleeping somewhat peacefully, then takes a deep breath to settle in for how ever long he needs to, for how ever long Enjolras needs him to. His heart sinks. Enjolras isn’t going home any time soon.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

    Valjean skips his second coffee. It would be a twenty minute detour and his new patient has been up for nearly two hours now. From what Larose had said, Valjean has another hour or so before Enjolras falls back asleep. Concern over their mismatching schedules makes the weekend workday easy to justify. The longer the time between his evaluation and when the lessons begin, the harder it will be to build the necessary relationship. As his hand raises to knock there is an eruption of laughter. He hesitates, smiling at the young, delightful sounds, a bit shocked at the drastic difference from the last time he came to meet Enjolras. Only when it quiets down to a light murmur of talking does he knock, almost reluctantly. The chatter doesn’t stop as someone shouts for him to come in. Opening the door, his jaw drops and his lips turn up in a surprised smile. Every surface of the room is covered with a kid.    

    Combeferre is sitting on the only chair in the room and Joly is sitting on the couch with two other kids. He has changed out of his scrubs and looks much younger than the medical student Valjean met the other day. The boy has a girl’s legs tossed over his lap, his head thrown back in a loud, throaty laugh. Valjean decides this is how the kid should always look, not the serious, burdened young doctor. Courfeyrac’s on the bed with Enjolras’ head on his shoulder and a girl on the other side of him. There are three kids on the bed, two on the window sill, and two more on the couch next to Combeferre’s chair. He steps into the room to see a boy and his own daughter sitting on the small dresser next to the door.   

    “Dr. Valjean,” says Combeferre as he stands up, coughing to clear his throat and sobering up from whatever brought the group to tears. “Hi, come on in. We didn’t think you’d be here this early.”   

    “Hello.” He says politely before turning to his daughter with a knit brow. “Cosette?”   

    “Hey Dad!” She jumps off of the dresser and envelops him in a warm hug. “Enjolras is your new patient?”   

    “Yes,” responds Valjean with a confused yet entertained smile around the room. It lingers on the blushing boy Cosette was sitting next to and the blond on the bed. Although his new patient is sitting, it’s only with the help of several pillows behind him and still, his head is leaning heavily on Courfeyrac. He’s watching Cosette curiously, but gets distracted by something the irishman whispers.    

    “These are the kids I mentioned the other day.” Cosette is saying. She’s beaming. Her blue eyes bright and her skin rosy. “You’ll love them.”   

    He can’t help but smile back. “I’m sure I will.”   

    Combeferre makes his way across the small room to shake the doctors hand. “Are you here to evaluate Enjolras?”   

    “I’d like to, if I can figure out which one he is.” The group of kids chuckle, sharing a look that says they’ve heard that one before. It’s a mixture of polite amusement and pride in their presence. Nurses have talked about a patient whose entire family comes by everyday but he didn’t expect to run in to him. He didn’t expect to run into _all_ of them. Larose didn’t mention this.   

    Cosette takes his hand in hers. The touch forces him to shift the stack of folders in his arms but he doesn’t mind. He never minds when it’s Cosette. “I’ll introduce you to everyone, if you have time?”   

    When she looks up to him with hopeful eyes, waiting for his confirmation that he can spend a few minutes of his day like this, he smiles. He’s never been good at saying no to that face she pulls, all wide eyed and sweet. There is no doubt he’s wrapped around her finger. He doesn’t mind. “That’ll be lovely, Cosette.”   

    “Great!” She beams, then bounces on her toes as she introduces her new friends. Each kid waves brightly as she says their name. Occasionally there is a joke or a comment thrown out about another friend which always results in a burst of laughter. Each time, Valjean looks to Enjolras. The boy doesn’t wave when introduced nor does he say anything but every time his friends laugh, he smiles. His gaze moves listlessly around the faces of his family with that lazy, content smile.   

    The enthusiasm in Cosette’s voice is easy to listen to and although Valjean is watching Enjolras, he makes sure he remembers the names of the children who have made his daughter so giddy. Joly is sitting with Bossuet and Musichetta on the couch. On the window is Bahorel and Feuilly, with Grantaire and Jehan on the other couch. On the bed is Éponine. Marius is the boy that was sitting next to Cosette and Valjean does not miss the way his daughter almost gushes over the boy. Valjean will speak to him later.    

    When the introductions are done, the room is quickly filled with a light argument between Bahorel and Bossuet after a passing comment from Courfeyrac. The actual topic escapes Valjean as the quick chatter fills the room and whatever the original comment spurs into a full fledged debate. The kids are clever, pulling out quotes, references, and analogies faster than Valjean can easily follow, despite three college degrees and a PhD. Soon Courfeyrac is bringing Marius in to defend Bossuet and Feuilly is casually backing up Bahorel’s points. The room quiets when Combeferre calmly states something that Valjean doesn’t quite understand and suddenly the entire conversation turns to education reform where statistics are cited as easily as the introductions had been.   

    For the moment, Valjean seems to have been forgotten and he’s happy for the opportunity to observe both his new patient and the brilliant smile on his daughter’s face. Cosette offers her own opinion occasionally but tends to focus on the witty remarks between the friends more than than the actual points being argued. It doesn’t take long for Valjean to understand why Cosette had been so talkative, so cheerful, so _happy_ lately at their weekly Sunday dinners. They are loud, delightful friends. It’s hard not to smile around them and it makes the scars on Enjolras’ face all the more heartbreaking for it.    

    After thinking for a long minute, Valjean can’t name a single person that Cosette had called a friend before meeting these kids and now she’s surrounded by an entire family. Fatherly pride swells in his chest at Cosette’s infectious giggle when Éponine calls Marius on something that leaves him pointing a finger in Courfeyrac’s direction in a dramatic fashion. There is a sudden urge to protect each one of them, the same urge that had him adopting Cosette in less than three days of meeting her, in fear of his daughter losing this newfound boisterous happiness.   

    Valjean’s attention is brought back to the bed when Enjolras lifts up his head causing both Courfeyrac and Combeferre to leave the conversation. The chatter doesn’t quiet down but everyone’s attention flickers back to Enjolras, watching him carefully. Enjolras restlessly searches the room for something, only calming when Combeferre reaches out and collects his left hand in his own, over Courfeyrac’s lap. From Valjean’s place by the door, he can see Enjolras squeeze his friends’ hand before falling back to Courfeyrac’s shoulder with a heavy sigh. There is a look between the two boys before Courfeyrac is extracting himself from the blond, who watches him sadly until Combeferre moves to sit on the bed and he’s distracted by something he’s saying.   

    “Hey doc.” Courfeyrac affectively stops the conversation around him, bringing the attention back to older man. “Sorry to have gotten so distracted.” Enjolras lifts his head off the pillow to watch his friend speak then turns to Valjean, clearly following the direction of the conversation. Either not understanding or not caring, he drops his head and when Courfeyrac speaks again he only looks to Combeferre. “We’ll leave before we put Enjolras to sleep.”   

    “I’m sorry to kick you all out, but it would be best to have his full attention.”   

    “Don’t apologize for kicking us out,” assures Courfeyrac with a warm laugh. “You’ll have to do it everyday.”   

    “Thank you for the warning.” Valjean smiles. He gives a short nod of appreciation to the boy, watching intently as he speaks softly to the blond. Enjolras doesn’t respond but he smiles and as his friends start to leave, he leans into each hug. There is a heavy sadness in his blue eyes as the room empties and his smiles fades.    

    “Actually Courf, I think you should say.” Combeferre says before his friend is out the door. “If that’s okay with you, Dr. Valjean, of course.”   

    “I don’t see a problem with it. We’ll mostly be getting to know each other for the first few sessions anyway.”    

    Combeferre smiles gratefully at him as Courfeyrac sits on the couch, sending his own appreciated smile to Valjean. Leaving the chair for the doctor, Combeferre stays on the edge of the bed, his hand holding Enjolras’ until the boy takes it to rub his eyes then runs his fingers along the scar on his neck absentmindedly. As the older man moves to take his seat he’s met with a glare from his new patient. The blond studies him with narrow, suspicious eyes that blame Valjean for his friends leaving. Intense and threatening despite the effort it takes to keep his head up. Valjean smiles, aiming to gain the boy’s trust.   

    It doesn’t take Valjean long to understand why Larose was so persistent on having this meeting with Combeferre. As soon as the boy speaks, Enjolras drops the glare and looks up to his friend, eagerly hanging on to every word with a focus Valjean has yet to see. He only loses eye contact when he looks down to find Combeferre’s hand but quickly looks back up.   

    Combeferre is explaining something in slow steady words and it takes Valjean a minute to realize he can’t understand it himself. It isn’t until he hears, _Monsieur Valjean_ that he figures out why. Interrupting the soft words, he asks, “Is that French?”   

    “Yes sir,” answers Combeferre. When he moves to look at Valjean, Enjolras follows his gaze. Learning it is yet again the old man taking his friend away, Valjean is met with a second glare. “He was born in France. Both of us were, actually. And although his first language is English, for some reason he’s been able to understand French easier since the fall.”   

    “I don’t speak French, Combeferre.” Valjean shifts in his seat. “He would need a French speaking speech pathologist.”   

    “Most of our friends don’t speak French,” explains Courfeyrac from the other side of the room. Enjolras looks over when he hears his friend and reaches out for him but Courfeyrac keeps his distance, only offering him a wink before continuing. “And we live in New York. So Ferre and I thought it’s probably best for him to start with English.”   

    “It would be unfair to teach him French when he’d only use it with a few of us,” adds Combeferre.   

    Valjean nods, impressed by the maturity of the boys when the last time he saw them they were beating each other up and screaming foreign threats. They can’t be out of their early twenties and yet they are making decisions for their friend that most parents struggle to make. The relationship is something he’s yet to see in his twenty years working. This burden shouldn’t fall on their young shoulders. “And his parents?”   

    On the couch Courfeyrac falls back in a huff of irritation. Combeferre smiles at Enjolras as he tells Valjean, “His dad was in Greece, last I heard.”   

    “But don’t worry,” Courfeyrac holds up his hand to Valjean but he turns to Combeferre when he says, “the man sent an email.”   

    “Not now Courf,” warns Combeferre. Enjolras follows his gaze to Courfeyrac on the couch, arms crossed and head shaking, before turning back to Combeferre. His blue eyes widen a little, searching his friends face for an explanation. Combeferre waves a hand at Courfeyrac, saying slowly and a little louder than normal, “He’s upset.”   

    After looking back to Courfeyrac, Enjolras points to Combeferre’s chest, then his own in question. When Combeferre shakes his head, Enjolras turns to Valjean. The man smiles warmly but it’s met with yet another scrutinizing glare. Valjean can easily see what got him here in the first place.   

    “Enjolras,” Combeferre calls. The blond immediately looks over and Valjeans’ smile grows more natural. “This is your new doctor. Dr. Valjean. He’ll help with your speech.” The boy points to his lips as he explains the last part and Enjolras nods slowly. He adds, _be nice_ with a heatless smile and it earns him an eye roll and an amused smile. “Doc, the floor’s yours.”   

    Valjean scoots up in his chair, thanking the boy, and turning his attention to Enjolras. He starts explaining a little about what he’s looking for and how they’ll set goals based on Enjolras’ current condition. Where it’s mostly for Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s benefit, because he’s not sure how much Enjolras can pick up yet, he directs it to his patient. Enjolras could easily understand what Combeferre had told him or he could just understand the routine of doctors talking to him. Valjean needs to figure out his comprehensive limit.   

    It isn’t long before Enjolras is lying his head heavier on the pillow, closing his eyes then forcing himself up. The boy’s gaze drops from Valjean to the floor, then to the tape and tubes from the various machines attached to his arm above his cast. He moves to fiddle with them but Combeferre collects his hand without looking away from Valjean. Enjolras looks up to him, then tries to grab his shirt to pull him closer but Combeferre only sets him with a stern look and a whispered, _pay attention_. His head falls back to the pillow, but he turns back to Valjean, who asks him a question. Enjolras gives him no response nor any sign that he’s listening, simply playing the part to please Combeferre.   

    “He can understand better when he’s paying more attention.” Combeferre explains quickly, defending his friends’ capabilities. Valjean nods his understanding, wanting to say he’s seen it with the two boys but Enjolras tugs at Combeferre’s shirt. When he looks down, the blond lifts his hand in the air, his palm facing his chest, then turns it out, with a question in his eyes. He repeats it twice with slow, thoughtful movements.   

    “With what?” Combeferre asks him. Enjolras shoots Valjean a look and Courfeyrac chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. “No, we’re not done.”   

    It dawns on him what Enjolras is asking and Valjean leans forward in his chair. “He knows sign language?”    

    “Some,” says Combeferre after another stern look to Enjolras. Although, it’s growing softer as minutes pass by and Enjolras’ exhaustion becomes more and more evident. It’s clear he’s done with the doctor’s visit. “Cosette taught him, actually. He’s picked some of it up pretty quickly and it’s made things easier.”   

    “How much does he usually say?” Valjean turns in his seat, facing Combeferre now to allow Enjolras a break.    

    “There are a few words he can say rather clearly but not many. Never full sentences.” He answers, trying to move the conversation along without missing details Valjean would need to help Enjolras as much as he can. He runs his free hand through his hair. His other hand is in Enjolras’ where the blond squeezes it for his attention, whining softly when Combeferre only shifts on the bed. He pauses in his description of his best friends’ speech habits when Enjolras pulls his hand away to rub his eyes again. It’s a rough, frustrated motion and he tucks his chin against his chest, his breathing growing a little quicker in distress as he grows more upset. Combeferre reaches out for him but hesitates when Courfeyrac stands up.   

    “I got him.” Courfeyrac whispers as he moves next to the bed. “Hey, Enjolras,” he calls, then signs, _What’s wrong?_

    Valjean watches the interaction with narrowed eyes, observing and noting his patients abilities as he communicates with his friend. On the bed, Enjolras shifts a little to see Courfeyrac better and answers with the sign for _Tired._

    Slowly, Courfeyrac responds _Still?_ with his eyes light in gentle amusement.    

    A weak smile pulls on Enjolras’ face before it falls and he signs, _Always._    

    After a quick shared look with Combeferre, Courfeyrac moves on to the bed to sit the same way he was when Valjean first came in. This time, Enjolras quickly buries his face against his shoulder, grabbing a hold of Courfeyrac’ shirt in his hand, threading the fabric between his fingers as he curls more against his friend with a painfully exhausted sigh. After wrapping his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, Courfeyrac looks to Combeferre and says, “He knows our names, has been saying them almost since he woke up.”   

    Nodding, Combeferre turns to Valjean to continue their meeting with a professional focus rarely seen in patient’s families, yet alone in children. Yet alone in children who were fighting each other the last time he saw them. Color Valjean impressed. “He’s always called us Ferre and Courf but he’s shortened our other friends names now, among other words.”   

    “He says some things pretty frequently. If you repeat things enough times he can pick it up. He was rather chatty last week but it’s cut down dramatically when we started walking more. It’s taken a lot of energy out of him.” The irishman runs a hand over Enjolras’ short hair. The blond is taking deep breaths that sound in the room, forced and unsteady.    

    Valjean nods, making note before standing up. He has all he needs right now, there’s no reason to push Enjolras. He tells this to the boys. Courfeyrac releases a grateful sigh as subtly as he can, relaxing on the bed a little more but Combeferre stands up. “I’d like to finish with his evaluation so we can move forward with the lessons.”   

    “He’s not up for it.” Valjean says with a look to his patient, eyes closed but clearly not asleep yet. “Not only is it unnecessary to force him, it could be detrimental to our relationship and his progress.”   

    “We want to get him home as fast as we can. That means getting him talking as soon as possible so we can guarantee he’s able to communicate if something’s wrong. If he can do that, he can go home.”   

    “He won’t be physically healthy enough to start the lessons for a few weeks.” Valjean informs them and he can see their hearts sink. Combeferre takes a sharp breath as if it were a physical blow. It brings a sympathetic grimace to the older man’s face so he aims to comfort them, adding, “He wants to communicate, is eager to even, which is a really good thing to see. I would say he’s most likely suffering from both expressive and receptive aphasia but there are several tests I’d have to run to confirm that. In a few weeks, we’ll set a date for that particular meeting.”   

    “A few weeks?” Combeferre takes a deep breath, sighing out his frustration.    

    “I’m afraid so. It’s important that I build a relationship with him. This time will help when we do begin the lessons.”   

    “If he can talk, he can go home.” Courfeyrac says, repeating what Larose had told them. His hand is still on Enjolras’ forehead, as if keeping him as close as he can.    

    “Larose is in charge of that decision. I’m going to focus solely on improving his language and comprehension as best as I can.”   

    “What can we do to help?” Combeferre asks.   

    “As of right now, the most important thing is to keep talking to him. Clearly there are plenty of people to surround him.” He says with a small laugh and a wave around the room littered with little reminders of the kids. “I’ll come by a few times every week so he can get used to me and I can start learning more about him. What works, what doesn’t, what he knows. Larose and I will decide when he’s healthy enough to begin his speech lessons.”   

    Combeferre nods, then walks with the man to the hall. He shakes his hand, keeping it longer than a normal handshake. “I just want to thank you.”   

    “For what?” Valjean asks, grinning at the boy when he drops his hand, realizing he had held it, and runs it through his hair.    

    “For letting us stay. For helping Enjolras. Joly says you’re the best and I’m just glad he’s going to get the best because if anyone deserves it, it's Enjolras. I just, thank you.”   

    “Combeferre, I'm going to do everything I can to get Enjolras home as fast as possible.” Valjean promises, patting the boy on his arm, and he knows it's true. There's a sense of dread, of fear that Enjolras may not have the capability Combeferre so completely believes he does but Jean Valjean doesn't go back on his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	24. September 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good days never seem to last as long.

         It’s the fifth meeting Valjean has had with Enjolras and he has to make sure he has the right room. Whether he’s more comfortable with the doctor or feeling remarkably better, Valjean can’t tell but he likes the change. He’s sitting cross legged on the bed with no extra support, eating cereal and occasionally smiling at Valjean. Courfeyrac is sitting on the bed with him, Combeferre on the couch. The speech pathologist hasn't been here for long but already Enjolras has said more than he had anticipated him being capable of. He watches as the broken conversation continues to bring wide grins and soft laughter to his young patient, a bit in awe at the irishman’s ability to make him so cheerful.   

     “We’re very talkative today.” Valjean says with a smile to Enjolras but aiming his comment to Combeferre.   

     “Larose is starting to take him off of a few medications,” the boy explains. “I think the side effects were really rough.”   

     “Sometimes I find they cause more problems than what they are supposed to fix.”   

     “Enjolras would agree with you on that one.” Combeferre laughs softly but the sound grows as he’s hit with a memory. “A few years back, he broke his leg in a riot. Do you remember that Courf? He was a fucking nightmare for weeks.”   

     “When?”   

     “That time he broke his leg.”   

     “Oh, god,” the irishman laughs, shaking his head. “He threw up half his weight on that. What was it, Vicodin?”   

     “I think so, yeah. He doesn’t react well to medicine.”   

     Enjolras looks from Combeferre to Courfeyrac before asking quietly, “What?”    

     His syllables end short, never quite moving fluidly, and he struggles to find the right words at times but the boys have been talking to him long enough to understand his most common words, or at least pick up on his intention.    

     “We’re talking about that time you broke your leg.” He explains with a tap to Enjolras’ right leg. With both hands he mimics breaking a stick, then gags.    

     Enjolras chuckles, waving his hand. “Nah.”   

     “Nah what?” Courfeyrac asks with a laugh.   

     “Just,” he starts, then bites his lip and taps Courfeyrac’s hand as he searches for the word. It fails him so he resorts to signing, _sprain_.   

     “Sprain? Just a sprain?”   

     “Yeah.” The blond says, then lifts his broken arm in the air. “Just sprain. You worry.”   

     “You’re ridiculous.” Courfeyrac’s grin is so big it looks painful. For a few seconds, he stares at Enjolras with that grin but emotional eyes, as if struck awe at his friend. In a quick lunge, quick enough for Valjean to flinch, the boy tackles his friend. They fall back to the pillows behind Enjolras, laughing while happy tears fall down Courfeyrac’s cheeks, suddenly overwhelmed that he still gets to hug him, to pepper him with obnoxious kisses, to feel the familiar embrace returned.    

     This is one of the better days. When Enjolras doesn’t ask why he’s here or when he gets to go home. There are no MRI’s, no blood tests, no eye exams. As the pain medication leaves his system, he’s not as nauseous or drowsy, less lethargic and confused. He’s talking more, laughing louder. There are times, on these good days, when Combeferre forgets about the scars on his face, when he forgets they’re in a hospital, not at home, that the almost ever present glaze of confusion over his best friends blue eyes can be blamed on exhaustion and not the brain trauma. It’s during those times that things feel normal, normal like they were four months ago. Combeferre likes these days because they make him forget all the harder ones. On days like today, he’s hit, just as Courfeyrac certainly was, by an overwhelming sense of relief that Enjolras is alive where on the harder days tears fall because Enjolras can’t get off the bed by himself.    

     Across the room, Valjean is smiling like an amused parent as Courfeyrac presses kisses along the scars. A breathless giggle erupts from Enjolras before he tries to shift the advantage. Perhaps he got caught up in the happy moment or he, like Combeferre, forgot he is in the hospital and not in the safety of his own bed. For whatever the reason, he moves more than he should have. The movement brings a short gasp from the boy, then an _ow_ that has Courfeyrac pulling back in a flash, hands tight against his chest and fear in his wide eyes. Both Combeferre and Valjean stand up, ready to assist for whatever is hurting the blond.    

     “Enjolras? Are you okay?” Courfeyrac calls, his voice wavering a bit in concern and guilt. The blond glances to him, his eyes wide in confusion and brow pinched in frustration, before following the needles attached to his arm above his cast. He gathers the three separate IV lines, and with a grunt, he pulls them all out before anyone can stop him. They interfered with his hug from Courfeyrac, scared him even. They had to go.   

     “Fuck, Enjolras.” Combeferre sighs, pressing the nurses button as Valjean grabs a few discarded napkins to hold over the now bleeding arm. When he crosses the room, Valjean lets Combeferre take his place. Enjolras tries to pull his arm back, giving him a confused look, but his friend’s grip is tight and unyielding. “You're bleeding, Enjolras.”   

     “No. Fine.” Enjolras tells him, as if Combeferre is too worried. He pats his friends hand on his arm, then tries to pull the fingers off when it doesn't comfort Combeferre in to letting him go. “Fine.”

     “You're bleeding. Look,” Combeferre lifts up the napkins to show him the red stains. It's not a deep cut but a wide one from the angle he pulled and because it was from a vein, there's a fair amount of blood.    

     Enjolras stops trying to pull him off but looks up at his friend with narrow eyes. “All done.”   

     “All done with what?” Combeferre shakes his head at Enjolras after the he pointed to the machines behind them. “No, we aren't all done.”   

     “All done. No more,” says Enjolras, looking determined to make a point.   

     “You need it.”    

     “No.”   

     “Yes.”   

     “No.” He tries to pull away again, pleading this time. “Please? Ferre. No more.”   

     “I’m sorry, E.”   

     The blond huffs out a breath, looking away as the sudden anger turns in to painful disappointment. The change is quick, no more than a few seconds before the tension in the room grows thick, then despairing and Valjean feels at a loss of what to do. Courfeyrac had climbed off the bed. He shares a look with Combeferre before drops to be eye level with Enjolras.

     “I’m sorry, E.” He says it twice, slowly, wiping away a few of his friends' tears with his thumb. The only response he gets is Enjolras’ crinkled brow before tears fall harder and the blond attempts to wraps his arms around Courfeyrac. Combeferre moves with him, keeping the napkins on the wide cuts he created by pulling the needles out. Valjean lingers, debating if he should leave, let them have the intimate moment but he overall decides against it. Where he feels like he is intruding, this could be helpful for his lessons. At least that’s his professional justification. Really he’s desperate to help any way he can, whether it's comforting the angry and upset Enjolras or offering his support to the children trying to comfort him.    

     A nurse comes in. She takes a look at the scene, then moves immediately to where Combeferre is holding the bloody napkins. “Lie him on his back.” She commands softly. “I’ll have to put it in his other arm.”   

     “You can’t put it in his left hand.” Combeferre says, his voice on the edge of panic. If it’s in his left hand, Enjolras can’t curl up to him. He can’t sleep like that with his broken arm under him.   

     “The cuts are too deep on this arm.”   

     “No.”   

     “Combeferre, I’m sorry but I have to.” She says with a soft tilt of her head. The boy sighs, catching Courfeyrac’s eye from where he’s still holding Enjolras. With a quiet nod, Courfeyrac stands, bringing Enjolras with him, then lying him down. Enjolras doesn’t let go and when Courfeyrac tries to make him, the blond cries louder, sobbing now. It takes Courfeyrac climbing on to the bed, letting Enjolras keep his hold, and whispering in his ear for him to settle enough to allow the nurse to take his hand. She puts a generous amount of tape around his hand, ensuring that he can’t pull it out as quickly as he had before. After wrapping his bleeding elbow, she leaves Enjolras to the boys, knowing from experience that the blond will want no one else.   

     The room falls quiet except for Courfeyrac’s soft reassurances. Combeferre stands back, one arm across his chest, the other by his face to chew on his thumbnail. On days like these, when everything going right turns so quickly, Combeferre considers how easily he could make the cop disappear.    

     There’s a hand on his back and he jumps, forgetting Valjean was there. Seeing Enjolras spiral like that sure as hell won't go unnoticed by the doctor evaluating if he's healthy enough or not to start the speech lessons. _He’s going to be in here forever_ , Combeferre thinks with a bitter laugh. The man's hand is strong and comforting. If Combeferre closes his eyes, he can pretend it's his dad. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend they're home.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Enjolras doesn't say anything for the rest of the afternoon. He sleeps for a few hours, curled up with Courfeyrac, arms still wrapped around him. His one hand is threaded through the dark curls as if trying to keep him as close as he possibly can. Despite the awkward position, Courfeyrac stays there until Enjolras' grip loosens before adjusting to something more comfortable. When Enjolras does wake up, he keeps his grip on his friend, tighter than most days, unable to let go just yet. From the couch, Combeferre watches Enjolras with thoughtful, narrow eyes, staying on the same page of his book for an hour, before crawling on to the other side of the bed. The hours pass quietly like this, Courfeyrac and Combeferre chatting, discussing books or the latest news with Enjolras between them, trying to just fall asleep until he’s allowed to go home. Enjolras seems to like the soft voices surrounding him, occasionally humming affirmatively with a point Combeferre makes in that _you know I'm right_ voice he has or twitching a smile when Courfeyrac answers sarcastically. It always earns a shared look and a relieved chuckle from his friends.    

     When the door to his room swings open, Enjolras jumps at the sudden noise, expecting to have to fight a nurse or doctor. At the sight of Jehan, Grantaire, and Éponine he smiles, although shortly before sinking back between his friends. Even on the worse days, seeing them brightens his face but today it doesn't seem to help.    

     He only sits up when Courfeyrac crawls off the bed, drawn towards the take-out containers by his growling stomach. Combeferre shifts so Enjolras can lean in to him, his back half against his chest, his newly bandaged elbow resting on Combeferre’s thigh. This way he doesn’t have to keep himself up nor is he sitting alone. Before getting his own food, Courfeyrac makes sure to pass Combeferre his favorite, then ask Enjolras if he's hungry. The only response he gets is a long look out the window, purposefully avoiding eye contact, an obvious  _no_. Courfeyrac's chest sinks a little but he's almost certain that would be the answer to any question he asked. Quick to move past it, he sinks on to the couch next to Jehan and dives in to his food. If their friends notice Enjolras' wrapped elbow or that the IVs have been moved to the other side, they don't mention it.    

     Éponine sits next to the bed, talking to Combeferre. Occasionally Enjolras cranes his head to look inside the box of food Combeferre's eating out of. Every now and then he'll pick out a red pepper or a piece of chicken when Combeferre tilts the box towards him but he mostly sits there quietly, staring at his hands and focusing on the soft rise and fall of Combeferre chest and the vibrations from when he talks. Jehan and Courfeyrac sit next to Grantaire on the couch, politely having a conversation with him despite the artist not putting forth much energy to participate. Eventually they turn more to each other, discussing their own little topics with small smiles and light touches. Grantaire is more interested in the discouraged frown, the long glances out the window, the complete and utter dejection in Enjolras' shoulders. His food forgotten, he stands up suddenly and stalks out of the room, a goal set.    

     He returns armed with several of his favorite inky pens and a second chair stolen from an empty room down the hall. As he walks it clatters behind him, bringing everyone's attention to him. Ignoring the worried glance from Éponine and the amused look from Courfeyrac, he goes straight to Enjolras, who's face is still rather melancholy.    

     “Hi.” The artist says, suddenly nervous. He had a plan but Enjolras may not want it. He's going to try though because that despondent look does not belong on Enjolras' face, scars or not. “I thought your cast could be lightened up.”   

     The blond blinks at him, then glances over his shoulder to Combeferre whose smile grows as he catches on to what Grantaire is trying to do. To help explain, he taps Enjolras' cast, nodding encouragingly. Enjolras’ blue eyes flicker from his cast to the pens a few times before looking to Grantaire with a small, surprised smile. He moves his arm to Grantaire, eyes soft and light, hoping he's understanding it correctly. Grantaire beams, uncapping his first pen and adjusting the arm in his hands so the angle is right. The surface isn’t large enough for how ambitious Grantaire’s idea is but he forces the little revolutionaries to fit. Enjolras follows every line, every shadow, every subject growing clearer.

     On top of the barricade, Enjolras stands with his red flag waving, stubborn smirk, and a rope tied around his waist. Grantaire adds Combeferre and Courfeyrac on either side, both holding one end but Combeferre is distracted by a moth flying by while Courfeyrac tries to read the poem Jehan’s writing on his arm. He adds everyone. Feuilly’s folding a swan, _add one to the thousand he’s trying to give Enjolras_ , Bossuet’s tripping over a chair, Joly’s studying his tongue in a mirror, and Musichetta’s baking. Cosette and Marius are holding hands, smiling at each other with little hearts around them. Éponine is reading upside down, her hair falling over the barricade, and Gavroche is whistling at the bottom as he rides on Bahorel’s shoulders.    

     Enjolras never looks away from the drawing, his smile never faltering. He laughs when he sees Combeferre’s moth taking shape, then turns his arm to see the bottom of Musichetta’s apron. Grantaire picks up his pen just in time to spare Joly from an extra eyebrow. “Keep still.” He demands with a smile. Enjolras listens, not moving until Grantaire leans back and caps his pen. Then he studies the drawings for a few seconds. Grantaire’s a little disappointed and by the way Combeferre tilts his head to see his friend’s face it’s not unwarranted. When Enjolras points to him, then his cast, it makes sense. “You’re not on it.” Combeferre explains unnecessarily.    

     The artist nods, then grabs a green pen but when he goes to start, Enjolras pulls his hand back. Grantaire flinches. Shaking his head, Enjolras points to the spot next to his caricature. It’s the easiest place to see, the very top of his forearm. He hesitates. That’s a place reserved for Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, not for Grantaire. “Are you sure?”     

     Enjolras points again and Combeferre says, “Don’t question it R. It’s not fair to either of you.”   

     “Please?” Enjolras asks softly.    

     “I can’t even pretend to say no.” He mumbles with a smile as he uncaps his pen and adds himself, resting leisurely in a chair embedded in the barricade under where Enjolras stands. There’s a green bottle in his hand but even his cartoon self is looking up at Apollo.    

     Moving the cast in the air, Enjolras studies every beautiful line, memorizes every familiar face, smiling at every subtle detail added for each friend. Feuilly’s wearing the newspaper boy cap he wears nearly every day and Combeferre’s tattoos are as clear as they are right now. He runs his fingers across his friend’s arm next to him, grinning as he can see the matching shapes. The writing on Courfeyrac’s arm is the same in Jehan’s notebooks, Marius is blushing, and, leaning in closer he can see there are the scars on his own face. Scars he can't really remember seeing but feels often, running his fingers over them like they are foreign memories and the touch can offer some forgotten detail.

     After a deep, overwhelmed breath, Enjolras lunges for a hug. The movement is so quick, Combeferre instinctually grabs his shirt to keep him on the bed. When it’s clear Grantaire has him, Combeferre lets go, and the hug lasts several long minutes. When it's over, Enjolras falls back on to the bed, leaning a little heavier in to Combeferre and examining his cast, keeping it close to his face to counteract his blurry vision. Using the distraction, Grantaire wipes away the small, happy tears building in the corners of his eyes. The room seems lighter, the night warmer. Enjolras rarely looks up from his cast and Grantaire doesn’t drift away from that soft smile of his, taking in every small laugh that he managed to give Enjolras.    

     The room fills with an natural, easy conversation, allowing the time to pass with warm laughter and before Combeferre realizes it, Éponine is getting up to close the curtains against the black night and Enjolras is sinking further in to his chest. She stops on her way back to her chair to look at the newly decorated cast, then kisses Enjolras on the forehead as he fights off sleep with longer and longer blinks. Éponine’s hand is soft in Combeferre’s, soft and strong. He brings it up to give her a kiss on her fingers, then wraps his arm tighter around the blond’s shoulders, keeping them both close where they are safe. It’s only a few minutes before Enjolras falls asleep against his chest, his arm cradling the cast protectively in his lap.

     Their friends stay another hour or so before heading home. They have jobs and lunch plans to make, grocery shopping to do and books to catch up on. Combeferre watches them go, heartbroken that they can’t follow. It's a sadness that sits painfully in his chest. Enjolras should be going to work, reading over court cases and planning protests. He should be complaining about Lamarque forcing him to take the day off and falling asleep on the couch while he and Courfeyrac watch old comedies. Instead he’s pulling needles out of his arm and falling asleep in a hospital bed. Right now, all Combeferre can do is keep him safe, so he readjust his arm so Enjolras is almost completely lying flat against his chest and fall asleep to the reassuring rise and fall of each breath, matching his own as sleep hits him suddenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	25. September 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing comments!

     Jehan likes reading to his favorite terminally ill patients. Despite the nurses gentle warnings that _they don’t have much time_ , he’ll disappear for hours, brooding about death and mumbling d’Aubigné's words and covering the limited free space on arms in black rhetoric when he finds the bed empty. Only Courfeyrac has proven able to coax him down from the roof when security finally gets antsy over the dark poet who ignores their threats. It takes promises of tea, trips to his favorite used book store, and cuddles with Enjolras. After the third time, Courfeyrac quickly learned a trip to Enjolras’ room is the fastest way to get Jehan to agree.    

     There is never a time Enjolras won’t let Jehan lie with him, especially when there are tears in his soft, green eyes and the first thing he does is press those ink stained fingers under his jaw to feel for his pulse. Over Jehan’s shoulder, Courfeyrac gives him a reassuring smile and that’s all Enjolras needs to know that everything’s okay, then happily leans in to the poet’s arms. He wants to ask,  _why are you so sad, Jehan?_  Maybe he can help. He wants to tell him, _Everything is okay. See? I'm okay_ , because the way Jehan clings to him is frightening, tightly as if time is limited and maybe he isn't okay. When Jehan leaves, he'll try to ask Courfeyrac but the words never come so he'll watch the beeping, flashing, complicated machines and try to figure out if they are the only things keeping him alive.   

     The nurses know to step aside when Courfeyrac and Jehan make their way from the roof to Enjolras’ room. They know that every Tuesday and Thursday there will be homemade treats from Cosette and Musichetta on the nurses station, a silent and welcomed bribe to keep ignoring the limited visitors hours. Feuilly will fix any and all of the broken toys that the children bring him and Marius has made a friend in one of the old janitors. They can often be found on one of the benches in the little garden discussing this book or that. Grantaire makes sketches for every patient, whether they want one or not, leaving the papers on nightstands or hidden under pillows. After the nurses saw what he drew on Enjolras’ cast, they asked him to visit the children’s ward and soon all the little plastered arms and legs, and one neck brace that forced him to take a moment for the tears to past, were brightly colored with delightful drawings. He did whatever was requested from the children, meaning anything from puppies and fairies to fire trucks, farmhouses, and castles. On one fully casted leg, he drew an elaborate city skyline with Batman’s silhouette on a roof, despite the heated argument he got in to that Captain America was clearly the best superhero. Courfeyrac and Cosette organized a photo with the artist and all of his little art projects, Enjolras included. A copy of it now sits on both of their nightstands.    

     There’s no doubt the hospital is theirs. They eat in the break room, not the cafeteria. They wander the halls, making rounds to their favorite patients and nurses just as the doctors do, sometimes even following the doctors around with found clipboards and toy stethoscopes. They steal rubber gloves to make balloons, challenge each other to jell-o stacking contests, and build forts out of the delivery boxes that arrive every Wednesday at ten, with Enjolras in the middle. There is a constant game of hide and seek going on, people coming and going so it’s never quite clear who they are looking for. Enjolras’ room is base. Someone can always be found in the children's ward, often in an elaborate costume or in the middle of some intense game with a six year old. In his attempt to convince the kid Captain America really is better, Grantaire has watched nearly every superhero movie with him, and the rest of that hospital wing. Even though he hasn’t conceded, he did let Grantaire draw a little Steve Rogers in an alley on his cast. The artist counts it as a win.   

     They assume it’s okay because Joly is a doctor. He’s a year short of being a doctor, an intern technically, but he’s always been a doctor to them. Plus they’re friends with the daughter of the most loved speech pathologist in the building, meaning they all feel like they are Valjean’s kid. There has been more than one occasion where they’ve felt Valjean’s kindness, where his name has saved them from being banned or his gentle yet frightening voice has given them the distraction to disappear. It’s not hard to see the man is utterly entertained by the kids. His approval often keeps them from trouble.   

     Not everyone is as content with the hoard of young adults running around their hospital, but that’s never made the Amis reconsider the amount of time they spend there. Joly almost lives here, Cosette practically lives here, and Enjolras does live here. It comes with the territory. With one, you get all. With three, it's guaranteed. It’s not codependency so much as a horribly uncomfortable feeling when parted.    

     Most people on the high dependency unit know them but it is a large hospital and it’s not unusual to run into someone who raises an eyebrow. Should this staff member feel the need to question the reason why four boys are racing each other down the halls in wheel chairs or why the couple is sleeping on the couch in the break room, they’re asking for war. It’s subtle and they do it with charming smiles, but the risk is too high for them to take on the challenge with any less than Enjolras’ usual intensity.    

     If one explanation doesn’t work, they'd use another and another until they run out of names to drop and simply start lying. The truth of it, though, is that the people who care don’t have the power to kick them out. Enjolras has been here for over three months now. The patients love the kids which makes the nurses happy, the nurses adore them which forces the the doctors to tolerate them. With one approving nod from any of the hearts they’ve won and the enemy can only shrug and walk away, leaving Bahorel to yell about cheaters as Grantaire does his victory dance in the hall with the kid they had wave the flag, for the moment forgetting about her cancer.   

     The break room on the eighth floor, Enjolras' floor, is theirs today as it is any day. Cosette and Marius sit at the table, one writing her first paper and the other reading through his textbook. Jehan is curled up under the window, streaks of the sun dancing across his notepad as his pen slides over the pages while Grantaire draws in his sketchpad on the couch. His strokes are softer, the pastels bleeding into the page the same way his stained fingers leave colorful fingerprints over the room. Bahorel and Bossuet are digging through the fridge for anything unmarked, arguing over the validity of an  _eat by_  date.    

     “They make it shorter just to be safe.”   

     “But ten days?” Bossuet asks, turning the yogurt over in his hand, as if trying to measure the amount of mold growing under the foil top. “That’s a long time.”   

     “Don’t eat out of date yogurt.” Cosette says, watching the two over her shoulder.   

     “Dairy products are different.” He counters, Cosette’s warning ignored. “They can last longer.”   

     Bossuet smells the food in question. “I think you have that backwards.”   

     “What do you mean?”    

     “That dairy products are different but in that they don’t last longer.”   

     “But it’s free. And mixed berry.” Bahorel says simply as if that’s all they need to justify eating it.    

     From the table, Cosette sighs, standing up to take the yogurt from Bossuet’s hands. “You can’t eat this.” She says, scolding them like children. They watch, frowning, as she washes it down the sink. “You can’t eat out of date yogurt. If you really want some go grab it from the cafeteria.”    

     “They don’t have greek yogurt,” whines Bossuet.   

     “That was greek yogurt?” Bahorel asks him, eyes widening. His friend nods sadly. “Why were we even arguing? We should have just grabbed it and ran.”     

     Cosette shakes her head as she sits down next to her boyfriend but her smile is endearing. Feeling a little bad that the boys don’t have anything to eat, even though they don’t really need anything to eat,  _especially old yogurt_ , she turns back around to pity them. They’re back to digging through the fridge but look over their broad shoulders to listen to her. “If you’re really that hungry, there may or may not be granola bars in the pantry.”   

     Taking her face in his wide hands, Bahorel plants a sloppy kiss on her forehead before joining Bossuet in the cabinet. After he leaves, Marius leans in for his own soft kiss. There are a series of curses when several boxes of cereal tumble down that pull them apart. Cosette just rolls her eyes and Marius laughs but everything stops when Joly’s voice rings out from the hallway.   

     “See, what did I tell you?” He’s saying, walking in to the room with a gentle grin. Enjolras is walking beside him, supported by a steady hand under his arm. For every step Joly takes, he takes three. “There’s always someone in here.”    

     Enjolras’ face immediately lights up and he stops, unable to walk and look around at the same time. Distraction has proven hazardous before. His nose crinkles adorably so as he takes in his friends faces. They all wave, grins equally delighted. They haven’t gotten use to the fact that he’s alive, that he’s going to be alive, yet alone seeing him up and moving. Grantaire straightens up on the couch, tucking his art supplies back into his bag and kicking it under the table to make sure there is enough room for Enjolras in case he wants to sit. The blond looks around, searching each face before he’s caught unbalanced on his feet and stumbles into Joly. His head rests for a moment on his friends shoulder before straightening up again.    

     Their friends knit their brows in concern. In a soft tone, Joly explains. “This is our second walk today along with our speech lesson. I think we are pushing ourselves a bit.”   

     Although he watches the young doctor speak, Enjolras shows no sign of listening. He waits until his friend’s done talking before moving his head into Joly’s line of sight to make sure he’s seen. Joly smiles, waiting patiently for whatever Enjolras is working on saying. His words are soft, insecure, often hard to understand when he’s this tired but Joly has been talking to him long enough to pick up on his particular pronunciations, especially the few he often repeats. “Ferre. Here?”   

     Judging by the way the others look to Joly for a translation, they miss it.   

     “Ferre is with Éponine,” says Joly as much for them as for Enjolras. The others nod, some biting back smiles while others openly laugh. That one should have been easily enough to predict. Enjolras turns to Bahorel as he catches the echoing laugh. By the pantry, Bahorel winks. The only response he gets is a confused stare and some absentminded scratching of the scar over his eye until Joly gently moves his hand away. Bahorel’s chest constricts in a painful, worried way but he doesn't let show. It must be unsuccessful because Bossuet squeezes his shoulder comfortingly.    

     Enjolras turns back to Joly, leaning heavily into him as his feet stagger. He's not going to lose focus a second time, though, and determinedly asks his friend for Ferre because he's really tired. He's really tired and he's not sure where he is but other friends are here so surely Combeferre is nearby. All he wants to do is sit down, curl up, and sleep. Maybe the haze in his vision will clear if he closes his eyes long enough or the weird ringing in his ear will fade. That's new. He doesn't remember dealing with that yesterday but he doesn’t really remember yesterday all that well so that doesn't mean that this hasn't happened before. He should mention that to Ferre. He does remember this god awful headache though and it's only gotten worse. He closes his eyes and doesn't hear Joly respond, forgetting he was supposed to listen. When he opens them again, he asks for Ferre and Courf, not knowing or caring how much time has passed.    

     “He's fine,” Joly is telling the others as they all shift nervously. Both Bahorel and Bossuet have taken a step forward and Grantaire stood up, anticipating Enjolras passing out or falling over. They anticipate any possible outcome because Enjolras is staggering into Joly and swaying precariously on his feet and they may need to help. “He's just tired.”   

     “The speech lessons take a lot of energy. That's why my dad had to wait so long.” Cosette explains. Her laptop is closed and her hand is holding Marius' who looks like he's about ready to jump up too.    

     The speech lessons had come as a surprise to everyone, but it shocked Combeferre. Enjolras pulled needles out of his arm in one meeting, refused to let go of Combeferre's hand in another, and begged to go for a walk in the next one, which only served to exhaust him. The few decent meetings they had did little to build a relationship between Valjean and his new patient, so when the doctor suggested they start, Combeferre thought it was a joke.    

     “He's getting upset because he doesn't have the capability to communicate what he wants.” The doctor had explained. “I spoke to Larose and we both feel he's healthy enough to start.”   

     “Really?”   

     “Really.” Valjean smiled at his disbelief. “We can start next week, if that works for you.”   

     “Hell yeah, absolutely!” He accidentally shouted. As he heard the volume of his voice, he cringed, smiling apologetically to the man, who only seemed amused by the outburst. When Enjolras can talk, he can go home because he'll be able to tell them if something's wrong. In two weeks, he’ll start his physical therapy for his arm. A month. In a month, he should be able to go home.   

     “And this is the most he's walked since the accident.” Joly says reassuringly, trying to convey just how hard that is for Enjolras to do. It doesn't seem to make his friend's more comfortable with the exhausted blond. The ground seems too far away from his head and he doesn't look like he's paying enough attention to keep himself upright. “Here, Grantaire, can you sit down so I can hand him to you? I think a bit of rest would do us good.”   

     The artist stumbles back in his rush to get to the couch. Anxiety is making his fingers twitch but he forces them still with another promise from Joly that this is normal and the sudden weight of Enjolras leaning against him. The blond is mumbling as he moves about awkwardly on the couch, trying to turn or lie down flat, like he can’t decide what he wants. He's talking, saying something with increasing agitation until Grantaire wraps his arms around the boy’s shoulders and pulls him close against his chest the way he's seen Courfeyrac do. He assumes Combeferre does it too when Enjolras gets anxious or upset. Once his back is pressed against the broad chest, he stops moving. Things fall quiet for a minute until Enjolras decides against that and flips around in Grantaire’s arms so he can bury his face in the soft fabric of his hoodie.    

     A dumb smile takes over Grantaire’s face when the blond hums contently. Cautiously, he brings his hand up to card through the short, soft hair just barely starting to curl. The boy says something. It’s muffled against Grantaire’s hoodie and a minute after he stops talking he’s asleep. Joly sits on the edge of the couch, placing his hand on the back of Enjolras’ neck, as if checking for a fever. Grantaire watches him nervously, waiting for the moment when he decides this is wrong and dangerous and they need to rush him back to a proper bed and a proper doctor. But Joly only smiles before patting Grantaire on the arm. “Are okay to sit with him for a few minutes?”   

     “Sure.” Grantaire forces himself to say, trying to sound as strong and confident as he can despite how he’s holding his breath in fear of hurting or waking or scaring Enjolras. Just somehow fucking up in general. When his friend stands up, Grantaire caves. “But, um, hey Joly?”   

     “Yeah?”   

     “Is his arm okay like this?”   

     “He has a hard cast on. And his intravenous needles are taped down. You won’t hurt him.”   

     “So he’s okay?”   

     “Yep.” Joly says, taking a step towards the table before turning back to his nervous friend. “He’s just really tired, R. Nothing more than that.”   

     “But, doesn’t he,” Grantaire trails off, glancing down at Enjolras’ slightly parted mouth and the way his eyes flutter ever so lightly. “Doesn’t he stop breathing sometimes when he sleeps?”   

     “No, he just doesn’t always get enough oxygen. It’s different than sleep apnea. He only has to wear a cannula at night now.” Joly explains. “He'll be fine. I promise. If you want, though, I can get a wheel chair and take him back to his room.”   

     “No, no. If you say he’s fine then I’m sure he’s fine.”   

     “There is no difference between him sleeping here or in his bed. Except he’d be alone and he looks pretty happy here,” says Joly. Grantaire glances down at the sleeping boy, biting back a smile at the way his hand collects a fistful of his shirt. With a smile of his own, Joly moves to the table.   

     “Does he get to go home soon?” Bossuet asks.   

     Joly’s answer is immediate with the smallest hint of bitterness. “Not soon enough.”

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Enjolras isn't asleep for a few minutes but three hours and by the time Combeferre and Éponine come back from lunch, he's just starting to stir awake. Combeferre doesn't leave Enjolras often, never more than twice a week, meaning he isn't a very good boyfriend. Éponine deserves better than chats with Enjolras sitting between them and quiet movie dates where Combeferre holds his best friend instead of his girlfriend. Even on their short lunches, to someplace within a few miles of the hospital, or their brief coffee dates often to the cafeteria opposed to a real café, Combeferre is guilt ridden over not being there and certainly not the best company.

     He's not a good boyfriend and Éponine deserves better because she's an amazing girlfriend. There isn't a day that goes by that she doesn't come see them. She's always there when he needs her to be and not when he can't balance both a girlfriend and a brain damaged best friend, some how knowing so he doesn't have to ask her to leave. She speaks softly, always including Enjolras, forces them both to eat, brings anything she may think Combeferre or Enjolras would want. Books and soft sweaters, new documentaries and Enjolras' favorite blanket. But the most amazing thing, the thing that makes Combeferre's chest swell with gratitude and why he thinks he's starting to fall in love with her is that she seems to have decided Enjolras is as high of a priority for her as he is for Combeferre.    

     He could justify her time here as wanting to spend time with him, her boyfriend, but she usually says hi to Enjolras before she greets Combeferre and he wants to believe thats because she likes spending time with Enjolras, too. After spending so much time with her, Enjolras' nose crinkles happily when he sees her and she beams. She sits with him when Combeferre showers in the long term rooms, where Enjolras will be moved once out of the high dependency unit. He comes back to find her lying with him, telling long stories or catching him up on their friends lives, bringing a particularly warm smile to Enjolras’ face as he listens, not to her words but her animated voice. Some days she won’t get up to give Combeferre the seat on the bed back, instead curling up with Enjolras. She brushes her hand across Enjolras’ forehead, scratches his back, presses kisses to his short curls, when he’s fighting sleep, something that happens more frequently now the longer he can hold his focus. 

     Éponine takes care of him and she takes care of Combeferre, even if it’s as much as letting him shower or squeezing his hand. She deserves better than Combeferre, someone who will stroll through a park with her, that can walk her home after a dinner date. When he tells her this, she shuts him up with a long kiss and _I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be_. He can only laugh gratefully and smile when Enjolras grins at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	26. September 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire brings a kitten to the hospital.

         Grantaire stops so quickly that Bahorel runs into his back. It sends the drunk artist tumbling to the ground. He ends up on his back, sprawled out on the sidewalk. He’s laughing hard enough to bring tears to his eyes and forgets to look at the fluff that caught his eye.   

     “Bahorel, you killed him!” Jehan shouts, it’s a lighthearted squeal that echoes in the alley they landed in. From the ground, Grantaire watches as Bahorel tries to bend over, offering him a hand up, but ends up falling on top of him with a heavy grunt.   

     “Get off you brute,” yells Grantaire but it doesn’t get much volume with the two hundred and fifty pound man on his lungs. He sighs, moving his head to the side to avoid the terrible breath Bahorel’s huffing out in the effort it takes to get up. He doesn’t remember Bahorel being this uncoordinated, even drunk off his ass. It must be a new level that they’ve hit tonight. Grantaire smiles, then giggles. He closes his eyes tight in an attempt to clear his vision. Once he opens them up a flash of something moves in the back corner of the alley, catching his eye. Grantaire tries to follow it but can’t keep up.    

     When Bahorel finally pulls off of him, he rolls to his belly to squint into the darkness. Whatever the little flash was, it was fucking adorable. That is until it scares the living shit out of him. He shrieks, just a little, when the animal pounces out at him. It’s not really an animal but a small, dirty ball of fluff, jumping side to side and hissing, it’s tail straight in the air. After recovering from his initial flight instinct, Grantaire giggles and the cat stops, cocking its head at the sound. “He kind of looks like Enjolras. You know, if Enjolras were a cat.”   

     “What?” Jehan asks, lying down next to Grantaire on the street.    

     “He looks like Enjolras,” says Grantaire again. “The cat.”   

     Jehan stares back at the animal, head cocked to the side. “It’s a cat.”   

     “Do you think his arm is broken too?”   

     “I don’t think so. He’s walking on it.”   

     “I think it is.” Grantaire decides.   

     “I think it's fine, R.”    

     “No. He's hurt.”    

     Bahorel plops down on the other side of Grantaire. “How do you know it's a he?”   

     “It's a he?”    

     “What?”    

     “You just said it's a he,” states Grantaire as the kitten sits down in front of them and wraps its tail around its paws. “How do you know?   

     “What are you talking about. You said it was a he and I asked you how you knew.”   

     “Bahorel, I think you're drunk.” He laughs.   

     “You’re drunk, Grantaire.” Bahorel snaps defensively.     

     “Yes. I am. So are you. That's why we are talking to a cat in the middle of the alley.”   

     Jehan shifts a little closer to the cat, sticking out his hand. “What if it’s a she?”   

     “We should take it to the hospital.” Grantaire says, ignoring that possibility. This cat is just like Enjolras. Suddenly he scrambles to his feet and scoops up the cat, who lets him without much protest outside of a soft meow. Maybe it’s not just like Enjolras. “A pet hospital.”    

     “Do you mean a vet?” Jehan asks, following his friend up.   

     “No, a veterinarian.”   

     “Right. Okay. But I think he's fine.” The poet reaches out and scratches under the cat’s chin. “Can we keep him?”   

     “I don't want him.” Grantaire passes the cat to his friend.    

     “What? I thought you loved cats.”   

     “I only like cats. I don't want any.”   

     “Here Bahorel, take it.” Jehan passes it over.   

     The kitten looks three times smaller in his massive hands. “We already have a cat. Feuilly won’t let me get another one.” His two friends look at him, brows knit. “What?”   

     “You have a cat with Feuilly?” Jehan asks, not even trying to hide his amusement.   

     “Well, yeah. It kind of just showed up one day and we kept it.”   

     “What’s its name?” Grantaire smirks.   

     “Polak.”   

     “Polak.” Jehan repeats it dumbfounded.     

     “Yeah.” Bahorel says simply, missing the sneering looks his friends continue to share because he’s petting the little cat between his much to large ears. “Feuilly named it.”   

     “Jesus christ, Bahorel!” Grantaire shouts, taking the cat out of his hands. “Why don’t you just fuck him already?”   

     “I don’t know why you guys keep saying that,” says Bahorel. The other two simply shake their hands.    

     “How about Enjolras?” Jehan suggests. “I mean it looks like Enjolras anyway.”  

     Grantaire cradles the cat careful in the nook of his arm as they start walking a random direction. “What about Enjolras?”    

     “We give it to him.”     

     “We should bring it to the hospital.” Bahorel decides.   

     “Yes!” Jehan squeals, raising his hand for a taxi. “We should. He's going to love it.”    

     “What should we name him?” asks Grantaire. “We can’t name him Enjolras. That’s already taken by Enjolras.”   

     “Social Justice,” suggests Bahorel.   

     “That's too long.” Grantaire shoots down. “Remember, Enjolras doesn't really speak well yet.”    

     “And it’s not very clever.” Jehan adds.   

     Bahorel nods. “Right. Something clever.”    

     They all think for a minute. Grantaire tucks the cat into his shirt the best he can as the cab pulls up. He gives the driver the address, then has to pull it up on his phone because he’s saying the numbers wrong which makes since because he doesn’t know the actual address of the hospital.   

     Once the cab starts driving, Jehan tries another name. “Dante. He woke up to Dante. It’s poetic on two fronts!”   

     “Enjolras doesn't like poetry.” Grantaire reminds them, smiling at the way the cat is purring in his lap. Forgetting he’s in a cab, he pulls the cat out and runs a finger down the cat’s back. “Except yours, of course.”

     “But he woke up to Dante.”   

     “Probably to get you to stop reading it,” jokes Bahorel. Jehan looks out the window and his friend immediately apologizes. After a few _really, I’m sorry, I’m sure he woke up to tell you he loves you_ ’s the poet finishes his brooding and joins the suggestion game again.   

     The two are shooting ideas back and forth until Grantaire holds up his hands. “Guys, guys, guys. I’ve got it.” They hold their breath. Dramatically, he says, “Revolution. Because it’s something Enjolras loves and he has to love the cat. So we name it after something he already loves and he’ll automatically love it.”   

     “Perfect.” Bahorel beams.   

     “Golden.” Jehan nods approvingly.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     The tactics to get the cat into the hospital are dramatic and elaborate and drunkenly executed but some how they manage to get to the HDU without being questioned, which says more about the nightshift than their actual capabilities. Everything’s looking good until Cosette turns the corner. Instantly, they sense they’ve been discovered. Her narrow blue eyes bore pass their lies and their backstory, landing directly on the awkward way Bahorel is holding the lump under his shirt.    

     “Hey guys,” she says slowly. “Whatcha doing?”   

     “Nothing.”   

     “Nothing.”     

     “We have a present.”    

     Jehan turns and punches Bahorel in the arm while Grantaire gasps, “What the hell Bahorel?”   

     “I don’t want to lie to her.” He says sheepishly, avoiding Cosette’s raised eyebrows.   

     She turns her head to the side suspiciously. “What kind of present?”   

     “A shirt,” says Grantaire easily.   

     “A book.” Jehan lies.   

     “A cat.”   

     “Are you fucking kidding me?” Grantaire throws his hands in the air. Cosette doesn’t say anything, her mouth open a little, as Bahorel pulls the kitten from under his shirt. The artist finally caves to their failed mission and aims to make an accomplice out of Cosette. “We found a kitten for Enjolras because it looks just like him. See how cute he is? And his arm is broken just like Enjolras’ is.”   

     “You brought a stray cat to the hospital.” She states in an even tone. It sends chills down the boys’ spines. “You brought a dirty, stray cat to the high dependency unit of the hospital in the middle of the night.”   

     Grantaire nods slowly. “Okay. Yes, I realize how bad that sounds.”   

     “Cats have proven to brighten peoples moods,” offers Jehan.    

     “And think about how happy Enjolras will be to see him.” As if it would prove his point, Grantaire picks up the kitten and pushes it into Cosette’s hands. Once she holds it, the cat starts purring, butting his head into her hand. “See! He’s so friendly.”   

     There is a tense moment where Grantaire and Jehan lean in, smiling cheekily as Cosette studies the cat. Bahorel is still too embarrassed at how easily Cosette broke him. She looks up, looking from Grantaire to Jehan sternly before smiling. “We should at least wash him before we give Joly a heart attack.”

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     It’s not the first time Combeferre didn’t spend the night at the hospital. It’s the second and the first time was a fluke as he passed out on the couch and didn’t wake up for ten hours but still. Last night was a big step for him and not a pleasant one. Courfeyrac stayed with Enjolras, meaning he was in good hands, but it didn’t help him sleep any better. The guilt rested heavily in his stomach until Éponine leaned against him and thanked him for staying the night with her. After he forced himself to stop comparing the ways she and Enjolras curled up differently, it was easy to fall asleep. Surprisingly easy. With in seconds kind of easy and he can’t remember sleep being that trouble-free. It was so nice, he didn’t even dream. Which only made the morning that much harder.   

     He woke up, kissed his girlfriend, called her his girlfriend, and showered quickly. He kissed his girlfriend again when he got out and saw that she was already set to leave with him to the hospital, despite the dreadful hour. That made it easier. She made it easier.   

     They walk hand in hand down the hall. Just outside the door, Combeferre kisses her again and thanks her for last night. Éponine is grateful he walks into the room first. It gives her the time to swallow down her giddy smile and recover from the blush she can feel warming her cheeks. It falls quickly when Combeferre only takes one step into the room before freezing. Fearing the worst, Éponine pushes past him. She freezes just the same, mouth falling open and eyes wide.   

     Bahorel is sleeping on a chair, his feet over one arm and his head off the edge, only inches from the floor. Courfeyrac is reading on the couch with Jehan’s head in his lap and Grantaire is curled up at the foot of the hospital bed with his head resting on one of Enjolras’ legs. His own legs have to hang off the end of the bed to fit. In the nook of Enjolras’ elbow is a small furry cat, purring as he scratches under it’s chin. The others are sleeping. Their snores fill the room in unison. Both Enjolras and Courfeyrac look over at the open door. Courfeyrac smirking with a story to tell and Enjolras beaming. He points to the cat, his mouth open and smiling to convey his surprise.    

     “Enjolras, tell them what R found for you.” Courfeyrac says, waving a hand to Combeferre and Éponine staring at the strange scene.   

     “A kitten, Ferre.” He recites proudly.   

     In a whisper, Courfeyrac shares, “We worked on that one.”   

     “Oh man,” says Combeferre moving in to the room with a growing smile. “It’s fucking adorable when he says it.” He sits on the edge of the bed and kisses Enjolras’ forehead before examining the animal in his friend’s arms. The small grey and white kitten purrs steadily, nuzzling in to the blonds’ hand. Enjolras looks to Combeferre, studying his face the way he does when he’s missed something. Slower, Combeferre repeats it. “I like the way you say kitten.”   

     “Kitten.”   

     “Yeah. It’s adorable.”   

     Enjolras scoops the cat up with his good hand and gives it to Combeferre. It drops to his lap, landing on his small paws with a meow almost as cute as Enjolras’ _kit-en_. Combeferre smiles, having to push up his glasses at the sudden transfer and wrap an arm around the furry animal to keep it from sliding to the floor. The cat looks up at him. Big green eyes study his face before starting the arduous journey back to Enjolras. Combeferre chuckles and helps the little thing by placing it gently in Enjolras’ lap.    

     “He clearly prefers you,” comments Combeferre with an amused smile as Enjolras goes back to running a finger over the velvety ears. “I’m glad to see I didn’t miss much last night.”   

     “Oh, just your usual drunk friends sneaking a stray cat into an intensive care unit.” Courfeyrac shrugs.   

     “High dependency.” Éponine corrects him from where she’s perched on the dresser by the door.    

     “Right. Sorry.” She flashes him a quick smile at his slightly wide eyes at his mistake. He’s quick to recover. “Anyway, you’ll never guess who was in on it.”  

     Combeferre thinks for a minute. “Cosette?”   

     “Did you run in to her in the hall? I told her not to tell you yet.”   

     “I figured it out by using the power of deductive reasoning and the theory of-”   

     “Calm down there, smart ass. It was the bow, wasn’t it?”     

     “The bow.” Combeferre nods, fingering the little red and white ribbons around the kitten’s neck. “I figured Jehan could have done it but he can’t braid his own hair after one beer. And if he was drunk enough to bring a cat to the hospital he probably had more than one beer.”   

     “Cosette.” Enjolras tells Combeferre, looking at the way his friend is examining the bow. The way he says her name has yet to change, leaving off the last syllable in a soft nickname. Cosette grins uncontrollably nearly every time she hears it.   

     “She was in on it?” Combeferre shakes his head, feigning disapproval and smiling, when Enjolras makes that nose crinkled grin of his. A little in awe, he states, “He really likes it.”   

     “He fucking loves the thing.”   

     “Have you ever seen him this way with an animal?”   

     “Only his neighbors dog when he thought he’d treat it better but that was more equal rights, and a self-righteous nine year old, than actually liking it.”  

     Combeferre turns back to Enjolras where the cat is trying to climb up to his shoulder. His face falls, saying mostly to Courfeyrac in a careful whisper, “He can’t keep it. Not here.”   

     “I know.” Courfeyrac bites his lip in the same sad, knowing way. “I’m not the one telling him.”   

     “Well I don’t want to.” Combeferre pouts. Looking back to Enjolras, who scoops the cat up with his good hand and places it back in his lap only to have the little paws start up his chest again. He giggles, the sound soft and innocent. It grows quiet in the room outside of that soft laugh. Combeferre watching Enjolras and Courfeyrac watching them. They’re smiling, quiet in that thoughtful, troubled kind of way. Éponine rolls her eyes and moves around the room to sit on the other side of the bed. Enjolras looks up, grinning, then hands her the cat like he had for Combeferre.    

     “ _Kit-en_.” He says. She picks it up and nuzzles its nose to hers.   

     Combeferre turns to Courfeyrac. “Why is it so fucking cute when he says it?”   

     “Because there was a time you thought he’d never say anything,” Courfeyrac responds simply as he’s watching Enjolras. Combeferre’s face sobers, realizing the reality behind the answer. “Yet alone kitten.”   

     Not enjoying the heavy conversation, Éponine decides it’s time to change the focus. The fluffy animal in her hands is a perfect new topic. “What’s it’s name?”   

     “Grantaire was calling it Revolution last night.”   

     “We aren’t naming it Revolution.” Combeferre says quickly.   

     Courfeyrac knits his brow. “I thought we weren’t keeping it.”   

     “Why not? It doesn’t particularly roll of the tongue but I think it’s kind of fitting.” She says as the cat in her lap bats at her finger. Enjolras giggles again and she places it back in his hands.   

     “We aren’t naming a baby animal after a violent upheaval.”    

     “But we aren’t keeping it.” Courfeyrac says, seeking some kind of confirmation. He’s ignored. “Right?”   

     “But it’s Enjolras’ baby animal and he loves violent upheavals.”   

     “So we are keeping it?”   

     “Violent upheavals are what landed him here in the first place,” snaps Combeferre. Éponine flashes him a confused glare, which quickly grows defensive as he’s gaze narrows. “We aren’t going to name him that.”   

     “Fine. Whatever. Name it Bubbles for all I care.”   

     Combeferre looks to Enjolras, then back to Éponine who’s glaring at him. “What?”   

     “Nothing.” She crosses her arms and looks away.   

     “Why are you mad?”   

     “I’m not mad.”   

     “Clearly.” He says sarcastically before turning to face her. Enjolras watches the conversation, wide and confused eyes flickering between Éponine and Combeferre. The tension is quickly building. Despite not being able to pick up the words, he can hear the tone. He can tell something’s wrong. He reaches out for Combeferre but his hand is out of reach. “Are you mad at me? Are you mad at me because I don’t want that name? It’s a fucking cat. It’s not even our fucking cat.”   

     “So we aren’t keeping him?” Courfeyrac asks, trying to pull the attention back to him.    

     “Don’t blame me because you feel guilty-”   

     “Feel guilty for what? This is about the fucking cat.”   

     “It’s not about the cat. It’s-”   

     “It’s what?” Combeferre stands up and throws his arms to the side. “Please, tell me Éponine with your superior insight, what is it truly about?” From the couch, Courfeyrac cocks his head at the strange sight. He’s never seen his friend in a petty argument before, yet alone a quarrel with a significant other. It’s like seeing a foreign animal excel in a new environment. For the moment, it’s enough to forget that Enjolras is literally in the middle of it.   

     “Why are you yelling at me?”    

     “I’m not yelling at you!”   

     “Yes you are!” Éponine raises her voice and Enjolras flinches. The couple freezes, looking at the blond in horror. With slightly shaking hands and tears threatening to fall, he shoves the cat at Combeferre. “Fuck.”   

     Combeferre forgets everything and moves towards his best friend. Enjolras shoves the cat at him again, unable to look anywhere but the bedrail to the side. In a soft voice, Combeferre apologizes. He tries to get Enjolras to keep the cat, gently pushing his hand back or placing it back in his lap saying, “It’s me, not the cat. I fucked up, E. I’m sorry.”    

     Every time Enjolras huffs out an angry breath and shoves it back. Tears start to fall. Combeferre grabs the cat once it looks like Enjolras considers throwing it, doing anything to fix whatever just went so wrong, and hands it to Éponine. Enjolras screams angrily, tears falling steadily now, and he thrashes his legs. It jolts Grantaire awake and Bahorel rolls off the couch. Éponine takes the cat from her boyfriend and with the animal cradled carefully in her arms, she ushers them out quickly. Enjolras starts sobbing, dropping his head to the pillow beneath him so quickly that it looks painful despite the soft feathers.   

     Courfeyrac drags a still half-asleep Jehan out and Enjolras alternates between pushing Combeferre away and clinging to his shirt. His eyes are shut tight, tears running a messy line down his face. After leaving Jehan mumbling sleepy questions with Éponine in the hall, Courfeyrac closes the door. He lingers out of the way, letting Combeferre try to calm Enjolras down because he knows Combeferre needs to fix this for himself just as much as he does for Enjolras. Courfeyrac stays well out of the way, despite Combeferre’s efforts doing little to bring the shrieking heart monitor down. The blond shoves his friend, gritting his teeth against the effort. It leaves him breathless as Combeferre stumbles back, hands up defensively, trying painfully to convey his remorse. It doesn’t matter, Enjolras’ eyes are closed anyway.   

     “I’m sorry, Enjolras. I’m sorry,” Combeferre repeats, sounding more frantic than Courfeyrac has ever heard him. Tears of his own threaten. “But if you calm down I can explain it to you!” He steps closer. Enjolras blindly grabs out for him. With a fist full of his shirt, he keeps Combeferre at arms distance. Combeferre’s face crumples, realizing he can’t step forward yet. He can’t close the gap, scoop Enjolras up, and make it all better. He can’t do it because Enjolras doesn’t want him. There has never been a time he can remember when Enjolras has pushed him away.

     He continues to apologize, trying to get past the tears. On the other side of the door, Grantaire can be heard shouting questions. Courfeyrac stays quiet, clenching his jaw and wringing his hands. His own tears are softer, quieter. Broken cries get caught in Enjolras’ throat. The coughs that follow are ugly sounds. Courfeyrac cringes. Enjolras struggles for breath, desperately swallowing gulps of air. Finally, Courfeyrac takes a step forward and demands, “Hug him.”   

     “He doesn’t want me.” His friend responds, heartbreak clear in his voice.   

     “He doesn’t know what he wants, just hug him and calm him down.” He watches anxiously as Enjolras continues to get more and more worked up. It’s only a matter of time before nurses run in with some sort of syringe. “Just grab him Ferre!”   

     Combeferre pulls Enjolras’ hand off of his shirt and wraps his arms around his friend’s shoulders. Enjolras fights at first, his screams increasing in their effort but not volume. It doesn’t sound like he can get enough air to be as loud as he wants to be. After a minute, he grabs on to the back of Combeferre’s shirt, clinging and burying his face into the familiar chest. Courfeyrac releases a breath.    

     Minutes pass and Enjolras’ sobs slow to a dejected cry, muffled against his friend’s chest. Eventually he quiets to shuddering breaths. His hands tremble with emotion. Combeferre feels him shake in his arms. He kisses the top of Enjolras’ hair, then his temple, and whispers quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Enjolras.”   

     Combeferre pulls back to press his forehead against Enjolras’ making sure his friend is looking at him as he says it again and again. Enjolras blinks forcibly, jaw shaking. He doesn’t understand him but he feels the strong hands on his arms and sees the tears in those hazel eyes. So he pushes against his friend and in response Combeferre moves on to the bed, keeping his hold on his best friend because Enjolras is letting him. It doesn’t take long for Enjolras to settle on his shoulder. Combeferre sighs heavily, keeping his cheek pressed against the soft blond hair. Enjolras curls in to his friend, gripping his shirt with one hand and burying his face in the soft fabric with a shuddering whimper.   

     When enough time has passed where Enjolras starts sinking in to Combeferre’s embrace with each breath, Courfeyrac comes to the other side of the bed and sits down. Offering his support in squeezing Combeferre’s shoulder. Quietly and cautiously he asks, “Do you think he just realized how hard it’s going to be?”    

     Combeferre looks at him, then nods slowly, pensively. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”   

     “Well this fucking sucks.” He replies in a soft, nervous laugh.

     “He’s alive,” is all Combeferre says.

     “So he is.” Courfeyrac says, lying down next Enjolras. They barely fit but Enjolras is half on Combeferre, still seeking the comfort, and Courfeyrac doesn’t mind the way he has to lie on his side, not when it means he can feel the way Enjolras’ chest moves next to him.

     Once the tears stop completely, Courfeyrac slips off the bed. Enjolras shifts, searching for his friend until Combeferre promises he’s okay, it’s okay, and tightens his hold. The irishman steps outside only to come face to face with Grantaire’s tear stained cheeks. He pats his arm kindly, trying to reassure his friend as well as he can. He tries to keep from getting distracted though, because where he wants to comfort his scared friends, he really just wants to get back to Enjolras. Not ignoring but prioritizing, he tells himself. The reason he left is curled up on Éponine’s chest.   

     “Can I take him?” Courfeyrac asks, nodding to the ball of fur. The girl hands the cat over reluctantly because she knows Courfeyrac will disappear and they won’t get any more details for hours. He takes the kitten and opens the door but there’s a hand on his arm. Hesitating, he turns back to his friends.   

     “What was that, Courf?” Jehan asks, silent tears of his own dry slowly on his shirt.    

     “He was confused, that’s all. Confused and upset.” He explains softly, moving the cat so it’s resting in the palm of his hand. “I think he’s just realizing how hard this all is going to be. We’ve had months to come to terms with that.”   

     Éponine nods and pushes the guilt aside. “Is he still upset?”    

     “A little.” Holding up the cat, Courfeyrac smiles. “I’m hoping this guy helps.”   

     “Dante.” Grantaire says suddenly, stopping Courfeyrac before he disappears behind the door. “Dante’s his name.”   

     The irishman looks at the cat, then his friends. Éponine must have explained it. His smile softens to something almost unreadable and so far away from either the heartbroken despair or the giddy excitement that it has been flipping between since June. “I like it.”   

     A twist of a smile crosses Jehan’s face and it’s enough for Courfeyrac to leave them. Enjolras is still clutching on to Combeferre in the silent room. Combeferre looks up over the blond hair when the door opens, nodding ever so slightly at the cat Courfeyrac holds up in question. The relieved smile he gives Courfeyrac is encouragement for the irishman to follow through with his plan.   

     “This is Dante.” He says softly as he places the kitten gently on Combeferre’s chest in front Enjolras’ face. The blond is still forcing himself to take measured breaths, silent tears running down his face, and pulls at Combeferre’s shirt in surprise when the kitten lands. Courfeyrac sits back down on his place on the bed, rubbing his friends’ back. Enjolras squints at the cat, then pushes him away and turns back in to Combeferre’s chest. Even though it’s more sad than malicious, Combeferre picks the kitten up just in case.    

     “Enjolras,” calls Combeferre quietly, but forcefully and places the cat back down, sighing when Enjolras doesn’t shove it again. He pets the kitten across his soft head, Enjolras watching his friend’s steady hand. The gray kitten flops to his belly, paws stretched out towards Enjolras’ hand. Several minutes go by before Enjolras lets go of Combeferre’s shirt and shifts his fingers a bit closer. It’s slow, cautious, but as he gets braver his face softens. The kitten leans in to the touch, closing the gap and purring, rumbling smoothly from his chest. Enjolras smiles, then laughs a short breath of relief. Combeferre sighs, relaxing for the first time in twenty hours. He squeezes his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, kissing the golden hair. When he looks up, there are tears sliding down Courfeyrac’s cheeks. The blond runs his index finger along the kittens soft ear and Combeferre reaches out and takes his friend’s hand, pulling him down to lie next to them.     

     “We’ll handle it.” He promises quietly.    

     Courfeyrac’s face scrunches against another wave of tears but he nods, lying back down. He wraps his arm around Enjolras’ chest, keeping him close to his own. Enjolras shifts in to the touch. The irishman coughs out a laugh through his tears with a low _this sucks_ , then buries his face in to Enjolras’ back until they’re both asleep, the kitten curled up under Enjolras’ chin.

     It takes some work but Combeferre manages to extract himself from his friends. Enjolras reaches out at the sudden loss, quickly growing frantic until Courfeyrac pulls him closer. He wakes up, blinking at Combeferre as he disconnects Enjolras from the intravenous needles. After a quick kiss to his forehead, Enjolras turns around to Courfeyrac’s chest. For a minute Combeferre watches them. It’s sweet and familiar, peaceful even and he considers staying. He’ll be right back, he promises, then leaves to find Éponine.

     She’s leaning against the wall opposite of the door and stands up when he steps out. “Éponine, I’m,” he starts but it’s cut off by a fierce kiss. The second apology is cut off by another kiss and the third by a strong hug. Silent tears drip from his cheek to her dark hair and she holds him close until they dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	27. October 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new rule and no one likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments!!!

         On the white board with his left hand, Enjolras scrawls out one word. He presses the marker with such angry conviction that the tip dips into the board with an unpleasant squeaking noise. The word takes him ten minutes to write and he has to erase it four times before the large, shaky letters are legible. _Sorry_ , it reads. Jaw still set, breath still huffing angrily out of his nose, and glaring towards the other side of the room, he shoves the board towards Valjean.    

     The doctor leans forward to read the message the boy wrote, then settles back in his chair. He folds his hands in his lap and waits calmly, silently, giving Enjolras the time to come back. From both his education and his experience, there is no value in pushing the blond when he is this frustrated. The set jaw means he's decided not to try talking, avoiding eye contact means he's either close to tears or about to throw something. _Again_. His hands shake, barely noticeable from where he presses them together in his lap, but this being their fourth week of lessons, first week of hour long lessons every day, Valjean is hyper aware of it because it means he's done. It means Enjolras has snapped past his ability to bring himself back down and all he wants now is curl in to himself and hide.    

     His heart tightens at the effort the boy is putting forth and with such little headway. Valjean would never be so straightforward with the blond. He can, and does, speak more candidly with Combeferre but Enjolras’ injuries have left him with a quick and violent temper, although the boys insist he could be this bad before, and, even worse than his rage, a tragically self-conscious mind with the tendency to spiral out of control. Once that starts, their lesson is done. Confirming Enjolras is not doing as well as they had hoped would only be successful in further damaging his progress.   

     Enjolras turns back to him, his jaw still set and his eyes still narrow. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to. Instead, he simply pushes the board closer to the edge of the bed, closer to Valjean, then pulls his hand quickly back to his lap to keep it from trembling.   

     “I read it.” Valjean says with the smallest bit of compassion. He’s not mad at Enjolras but he’s also not going to let his behavior be deemed acceptable. It’s something his doctor will ask when considering the release forms. Valjean wants Enjolras to be able to go home as much as the boy himself does. There is possibly nothing that could help him more then spending all of his time in a social setting, even if it is just living with two roommates. The kids’ friends are active and involved and, most importantly, they want to help Enjolras. There is no doubt he would never be as alone at home as he is in the hospital. The newly reinforced two hour visitors schedule is detrimental to both his progress and happiness.    

     “New,” the boy mumbles, his hand waving in the direction of the shattered whiteboard in the corner of the room. Valjean is a little surprised he's talking. The guilt must be pushing past his anger. It's not the first time Enjolras' temper led to a fit of either screaming or, more common this week, physical outburst. This time, ending in a broken white board and a dent in the wall. Valjean’s only happy he missed the window. “New one.”   

     “Don’t worry about it.”   

     “New one.” Enjolras says again, louder this time, before taking a few breaths in the way Combeferre always tells him to. For some reason it never seems to be as affective without his friend around encouraging him. _In through your nose. Count to three. Out through your mouth. Just like that, Enjolras. See? Everything slows down._ Where is Combeferre?    

     They fall quiet again for a few long minutes until Valjean decides Enjolras is calm enough to know their time is up and Valjean is not leaving because of his recent outburst. However, if this happened earlier in the lesson he still would have ended it. Or at least focused on keeping it light and nearly effortless for Enjolras. “You must learn to calm yourself down.”   

     Enjolras rolls his eyes, landing his gaze back to the other side of the room where bits of the white board blend in to the white tile. “Yeah.” He wants to say more, to make a sarcastic remark about how he clearly likes losing complete control and that’s why he keeps doing it. Or maybe something along the line that he’s so busy learning how to fucking speak again that breathing techniques aren’t really on his list of priorities. There are enough lines floating in his head to make Grantaire proud but not a single one reaches his lips. Neither does _where is Ferre?_ Softer he says, “Yeah.”   

     “Your temper is getting the better of you. If you learn to control it, we can focus on more productive exercises.” Valjean says as he packs up the rest of his equipment for his next appointment, including the broken board. He knows Enjolras won’t understand all of the words but he should catch the important ones. “I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll try again.”   

     “Yes. New one.”   

     “I won’t take it.” Valjean shakes his head. Insurance will pay for a new one. It isn't the first time a patient has broken something during a lesson. Enjolras' temper is shocking but it's not the worst Valjean has dealt with. Before he leaves, he squeezes Enjolras’ shoulder, giving him the warmest smile he’s allowed himself to send the entire hour. He always makes a point to end on a good note. Enjolras is no different. In fact, he’s his favorite patient. Not that Valjean allows himself to make such claims. If he did, though, it would be Enjolras. No one works as hard as Enjolras does, despite the lack of progress. His smile is hard to come by and genuine. His intensity shocks Valjean as quickly as his bursts of charisma. There’s something youthful, bright, and exciting about the light in his blue eyes. The boy grows on you and Valjean is no different. “If you do better tomorrow, I may bring some of Cosette’s muffins.”   

     “Yes? Please.” Enjolras sits up a bit more. His eyes light up excitedly. Now that he is not focusing on his words, they’re clearer and more fluid. Valjean wonders about the value of bringing Combeferre in on the lessons. Once they started, Combeferre made himself scarce without Valjean asking and he was grateful for it. Enjolras asked for him, occasionally begged for him when things spiraled too quickly for Valjean to catch it but in the four weeks of lessons they’ve had so far, Valjean only had to bring Combeferre in twice.    

     “Only if you’re good.” Valjean pretends to give him a stern look.   

     “Good,” promises Enjolras.    

     “Have a nice day, Enjolras.”   

     “Bye.” Enjolras waves but then clears his throat to get Valjean’s attention. His young, handsome face sets into an intense, serious look before he diligently stutters out, “Thank you, Doc Valjean.”   

     Jean Valjean smiles so broadly he feels it pull at his ears. He can’t figure out if it is from the effort Enjolras is putting in outside their daily hour together, new this week, or if it’s that the effort is definitely inspired by Valjean, since it's the first time he's said his name. Surely it’s a bit of both but the proud smile on Enjolras’s face, a face that looks so shockingly similar to his own daughter’s, and the breath he released after successfully executing something planned in advance is enough to bring tears to the man’s eyes. _Twenty-four years old_ , Valjean is cruelly reminded. _He’s a child_.   

     “Damn. Now this means I have to bring the muffins.” Valjean teases and Enjolras laughs. It’s a raw noise, one he is still self-conscious of, and it feels as if it fills the room with sunlight despite the thunder storm outside. He considers staying, just talking to the boy but he knows Combeferre is waiting outside. Sure enough, both boys are leaning against the wall outside the room. When Valjean walks out, Combeferre drops his wrist to hide the fact that he was watching the time. The man smiles warmly, greeting them with a soft smile.

     “How did it go?” He asks, just like he does every day. The boy eyes the bulky bag, the tip of the broken whiteboard peaking out from the corner. He falls in to step along side the man, glancing over his shoulder to see Courfeyrac walking in to Enjolras' room.  _He’s not alone_.   

     “His temper is quite volatile.” Valjean says. He's given up speaking diplomatically to Combeferre and opted to treat him as he would a partner, not the twenty-four year old friend of his patient. _Children_. Even with a few of his other patients parents he keeps his responses carefully thought out but Combeferre read right through Valjean, often pointing out what he was holding back and questioning it. Combeferre’s trust is almost as important as Enjolras' in the boy’s success. Whether he's just that smart, knows Enjolras that well, or did all the research worthy of a degree in itself Valjean isn't sure. From what he's learned so far, it's a combination of all three. So he speaks openly and bluntly, usually causing frustrated sighs and disappointed looks in the kind, young man. Valjean hates that the reason is something as unfixable as brain damage. The only thing he can hope to do is teach Enjolras how to make up for it.   

     “It’s because of that new rule.” Combeferre says, not for the first time. “He was doing great last week.”    

     “Where I'd agree, I'm afraid we can't do much about that.” He says with a sympathetic smile. It’s not hard to make the connection of Enjolras’ recently violent meltdowns to the dramatic time cut back from his friends that started this week. Especially if he doesn’t quite understand it yet. Valjean’s even started to come in early and stays later to stop by for a few minutes every day, just to give the boy something to look forward to. The early mornings are easy when he's greeted by such a warm smile and the long work days are always justified by the delighted laugh at the surprise visit. “Besides, it’s not a new rule. It's just the rule you have all been ignoring.”    

     “Then why enforce it now?”   

     “That's a question you need to ask Larose. I can only focus on his speech.” His best guess would be that Larose has decided it’s time that Enjolras focus on the speech lessons and his physical therapy. The doctor is probably worried about overworking the boy, wanting to force him to rest as much as he can. Where it's definitely having a negative effect on his emotional stability, his physical capabilities are improving. During his lessons with Valjean, Enjolras may not tire as quickly but he’s distracted, sadder even.   

     “But I don't understand!” Combeferre shouts, stopping so suddenly Valjean turns to look at him in shock. “He's still stuck in this fucking hospital and now you're taking his family away. Why not do it when he was sleeping all day? Why not do it when he was still so out of it he wouldn't have known who was there? Why do it now when he sits and waits for them to come?”   

     “I'm not in charge of that decision. I'm sorry.” It's clear Combeferres anger isn't directed at him. Valjean is almost grateful he's snapping at him, meaning he feels comfortable enough to do so. This outburst, like Enjolras', will pass and the only repercussions will be a bit of embarrassment.    

     “Is this about the cat? Because we won't bring it back.” He sounds close to dropping to his knees and begging.    

     “I don't think it's about the cat, Combeferre.”   

     “Then why? Even the other patients are asking the nurses for everyone. We may have been a bit rowdy but we were good! We never hurt any one, we never got in the doctors way. And now, he's so,” Combeferre looks away, running a hand through his hair as his voice grows quieter, shakier, “lonely. He's not allowed to be lonely.”   

     Valjean steps toward him, squeezing his arm to offer as much comfort as he can. “Enjolras is in a critical point of his recovery. This could possibly determine how much strength he regains. Larose is simply trying to give him the greatest chance he can. This isn't about you and your friends. This isn’t about the cat. This is about Enjolras.”   

     “He doesn't understand it.” The boy explains, thinking that if Valjean knows how bad it is, then he will fix it. “He doesn't understand why he's suddenly alone most of the day.”   

     “He has you and Courfeyrac. I know that's not the same as everyone but it's more than having no one.” Valjean agrees with Combeferre but he also believes Larose’s intentions are in the right place. He’s one of the best doctors Valjean’s worked with and if he says this is what Enjolras needs physically, then they don’t have a place to argue. Despite knowing this, Combeferre still shakes his head, then pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses to fight off the tears. _He looks tired_ , Valjean thinks. Tired and frustrated, but scared more than anything else. Scared that Enjolras is sitting there, waiting for his friends. Valjean cringes, knowing that is exactly what Enjolras does. He needs to have a word with Larose because maybe there’s another way to handle this. For someone like Enjolras, whose life is his friends, you can't simply rip them away from him like that without serious repercussions.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

     He needs a cup of coffee. _You’re not allowed to have coffee_ , Enjolras reminds himself. No coffee. No alcohol. No  chocolate because it has too much caffeine. No going outside unless in a wheel chair, no walking by yourself or trying to get off the bed by yourself. _You've tried it and you fell flat on your ass, remember?_ He still has the bruises and he can still hear Combeferre’s frightened shout. It’s not as bad as what he hears when he sleeps but it was painful enough to remember that rule. That scream doesn’t belong in Combeferre’s voice. No pulling on the needles, pushing random buttons, or messing with the machines. _Seriously Enjolras? They’ll strap you down if you don’t leave it alone_. They will because they have. Limited time using technology and absolutely no headphones. Use your words and _for the love of god Enjolras, stop scratching at the scars_. He’s definitely missing some because he never remembers all the rules. Someone will let him know when he’s doing something wrong. His doctor, usually. What’s his name? Enjolras bites his lip. He’s supposed to know this. Coffee would help him remember. It would definitely help keep him awake. Something, anything to keep him awake because everyone is here and all he can think of doing is curling up with Combeferre and falling asleep but he can’t do that because his friends aren’t always here any more.   

     The timer Combeferre set for him buzzed loudly, waking him up from his first nap of the day, _because he naps now_. It startled him, as it always does, until Combeferre turned it off. The note in his best friend’s handwriting, the one taped to the alarm clock on the nightstand reading _Visitor Hours: 12-2_ sent him shuffling quickly in his bed to sit up because it's 11:55. He’s asked about this particular note so many times he has it memorized. That or it’s conditioning where the alarm goes off and his friends show up, either way he knows to watch the door when he’s been startled awake.   

     His hand tapped anxiously on his leg, staring across the room and biting his bottom lip. “Coming?” He asked Combeferre, his friend sitting in the chair next to him. Combeferre’s always there. _It’s Combeferre’s spot_. That's where Enjolras looks first when he wakes up if his friend isn't on the bed with him.   

     “They're coming.” Combeferre said softly with an amused grin. Enjolras nodded, agreeing _because of course they are_ and looked back to the door. And just like everyday, his friends stormed the room with bright smiles and exited voices at twelve o’clock exactly. Enjolras practically bounced in joy. He's bombarded with tight hugs and forehead kisses, his friends as happy to see him as he is to see them. It’s a flurry of bodies, words, and emotions.

     They settled around him, in their usual spots that Enjolras tries to remember. He forces himself to repeat the mantra _focus, remember, recall_. It doesn't really work. He often gets distracted from what he's trying to remember, then forgets to recall it. It's why he still tilts his head at Combeferre and Éponine's conjoined hands _because that’s weird_ or the way Courfeyrac seems to lean a little in to Jehan. They're together, he knows that, _well knew that_ , but it's strange to see them close on a hospital couch and not laughing in bed. How long have they been together? How long has he been in the hospital? He told himself to ask Courf about it later but forgot almost immediately when Grantaire dropped a gray kitten in to his lap.    

     “Dante,” the artist told him with a warm smile. Enjolras likes that smile. The kitten purred loudly, wearing a red collar with an address on it but he can't read it.    

     “Yours?” He asked, smiling as the kitten tried to climb his chest.    

     “For now.” Grantaire’s grin grew small. _Restrained_ , Enjolras noted. He knows what that look means. It means he said or asked the wrong thing, something he's been told or should know already. Enjolras doesn’t like that smile. It’s only confirmed with the quick glance from Grantaire to Combeferre. How many times has he held this kitten? _Dante_ , he reminded himself.

     The cat is still in his lap, curled up and asleep. _Lucky_ , Enjolras thinks bitterly as he scratches between it's large ears. Looking down forces his eyes to close a little so he snaps his head up because his friends are all here and they aren't always here anymore. The sudden movement hurts his head and his vision crosses for a few seconds until he blinks it away. It doesn’t clear, not completely because it never really does. He still can't determine the pattern on Feuilly’s shirt or whether or not Marius and Cosette are holding hands because they sit in the corners of the room, further away and semi-blocked by arms and shoulders. Tears cloud his vision next. When he blinks, they slip down his cheek.    

     With the back of his hand, he wipes them away quickly. The conversation slows, voices and smiles small in that cautious and concerned, _restrained_ kind of way they have of doing but Enjolras doesn’t care enough to notice. He doesn’t care enough to ask them to stop. “R.” He calls, kicking at the blankets off his legs. It sounds strange in the now quiet room. Enjolras tries for his full name but only manages a mumbled _Gran_ before going back to, “R?”   

     The artist moves quickly to the bed as Combeferre sits up straighter. Grantaire doesn’t sit down because before he can get a chance, Enjolras is handing the cat to him. It meows against being woken up but nestles between the paint stained hands and strong chest. For a moment, Enjolras hesitates. The blanket is tangled between his legs, his breathing a little quicker than controlled, but he doesn’t aim to fix either because he’s torn between pulling him to the bed so he can feel secure in Grantaire’s hold or curling against Combeferre. Either of them would. They have before. He could fall asleep quickly, holding on to their shirts while their arms hold him close. But Courfeyrac is leaning in to Jehan in a way that is more than just for comfort.   

     He finishes kicking off the blanket, much with the help of Combeferre who ended up pulling it off completely, and sits up in the middle of the bed. It takes a little more focus to stay up without the support of the pillows but it’s also impossible to fall asleep without falling off. Despite the the wires getting tangled in his fingers, again freed with the help of Combeferre, Enjolras stays on track and points to Jehan, then Courfeyrac. “You?”   

     They nod, both smiling softly. The first time Enjolras asked was awkward. Everyone turned to them, waiting to confirm what they all knew. Jehan looked to Courfeyrac to respond, not knowing how much he wanted to label their time together with Enjolras still in the hospital. Enjolras, who still isn’t talking as much as they all hoped he would be, who still can’t afford the continuously growing bill, who Courfeyrac still spends most of his nights with. Jehan is always there, at home, with space on the bed and coffee in the morning, for when Courfeyrac decides to spend the night with him. The irishman nodded, then looked to Jehan. “Right?”   

     Jehan’s only response was a quick and strong kiss.    

     Sometimes, when Enjolras is in a good mood, they still kiss, making a show of being as sickeningly sweet as they can. It usually earns a delighted laugh from Enjolras and a few pillows being thrown. Today, Enjolras isn’t confused in the amused _what else have I missed_ kind of way but the angry, frustrated confusion when he’s mad at the world and mad at himself for letting it all get so out of hand. It doesn’t matter that it’s brain damage to be blamed, not work or a distraction. He fucked up and now he’s missing everything, his friends are sad, and Combeferre is scared. _Control. You can get control if you just focus long enough._

     They still nod, still smile but Enjolras doesn’t return it. He looks around, turning on the bed as he does to study each of his friends carefully to determine what else he’s missed. Combeferre moves from his chair to the bed, within reach of Enjolras because he doesn’t look steady enough to convince them he won’t fall backwards if he turns too quickly. His blue eyes linger for a minute on Bahorel, then Musichetta but he says nothing. They look the same as they always do except they’re not. Their hair is longer, their faces tanner, they’ve lost weight, and _is Marius taller?_ How much is he really missing? _Everything_. Another tear falls. Do they still have movie night? Did Jehan get a new tattoo? What’s Cosette’s last name? She and Marius are together, right? Because they hold hands all the time. When does he get to go home? If he’s home, he can go to movie night and he can study Jehan’s arms. He can get out of his own bed by himself and he won’t scare Combeferre.   

     The wires get tangled in his fingers again and this time he tries to yank himself free. It doesn’t work as a strong hand finds its way around Enjolras’ wrist, keeping him still. Combeferre makes quick work of removing the wire from around his thumb, then pulls him flat against his chest to wrap his arms around Enjolras’ shoulders. The blond sinks in to him, breathing heavily. He covers his face with his hands, crying silently. Tears slip between his fingers and land on Combeferre’s arms.    

     Courfeyrac asks Marius about school, then Feuilly makes a joke and the room fills with easy conversation forced just loud enough to cover the whispering instructions Combeferre gives Enjolras, his cheek pressed against his, making Enjolras move his hand. _Deep breaths_. He says gently. Enjolras leans in. _It won’t be much longer, okay? Before you know it, E, we’ll be home._ It’s not a stretch to guess why he’s so upset. _Deep breaths. Just like that, Enjolras._ He’s sad, not angry and that’s the worst. Enjolras’ tears stop and Combeferre kisses his temple, then rests his chin back on Enjolras’ shoulder. The blond is signing something, slowly and diligently. He messes up so he shakes his head and tries again.    

     _Ponine._ He signs.    

     “What about her?” Combeferre asks quietly.   

     _You and Ponine?_

     Combeferre chuckles softly. “Yeah.”   

     After a quiet minute, he tells Combeferre, _I like it._    

     “Me too.” He smiles, pressing a kiss against his best friend’s cheek, then glances over to Éponine. She’s watching them carefully. When he catches her eye, she gives him a worried, questioning look. Combeferre smiles, hoping it’s reassuring. He leans back in to Enjolras, who’s signing again.    

     _Sit. Sit with Jehan? Please? Jehan._ He’s asking. Jehan sees he’s repeating his name and stands up. With Combeferre, they help Enjolras move to the couch so he’s nestles in between Jehan and Courfeyrac. His head rests on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, familiar and reliable, but his fingers dance slowly across the foreign words wrapping around Jehan’s arm. To see the markings as clearly as possible, Enjolras brings his hand close enough that Jehan can feel each breath against his skin. He doesn’t want to be in the center, Combeferre realizes. He wants to with them. Combeferre stays on the bed, cursing himself for not immediately seeing that Enjolras would never want to be in the center, yet alone on a hospital bed. He’s joined almost immediately by Éponine, her soft and strong hand in his own and he shakes his head.   

     “He’ll feel better after he sleeps.” He tells her quietly. She squeezes his hand, then gives him a quick kiss. “It’ll all be better when he’s home.”   

     Enjolras doesn’t perk back up, his smile rare and brief, before falling asleep on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, his fingers intertwined with Jehan’s. Their friends don’t leave until a nurse forces them out at four o’clock exactly because if Enjolras wakes up, they’ll be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	28. October 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Combeferre have a picnic and Grantaire quits drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long between updates! I should get back to one a week as long as I don't randomly decide to start six other stories in one night!

     Combeferre looks up from his book to watch Enjolras suddenly wake up. On the bed, the blond sits up, huffing against sleep and confusion as he tries to shuffle upright on the pillows. He glances over and smiles at Combeferre, then turns back to watch the door. His thumb taps restlessly against his leg as he yawns, shaking his head to wake himself up. From his chair, Combeferre tilts his head as minutes pass and Enjolras’ face turns from excited to apprehensive, then disappointed. That was the quickest he's ever seen Enjolras wake himself up. Usually it's a long drawn out process of quiet yawning and forceful blinks before actually sitting up. “Hey, E.”   

     “Hi Ferre.” He says, sending a quick, forced smile in his direction before turning back to the door. “Coming?”   

     “Who?”   

     “All them.” Enjolras struggles to say, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, but it’s not hard to understand who he’s hoping will be walking through that door, especially when he points to the clock. It’s almost four o’clock though, meaning he has to wait nearly an entire day until their friends are allowed to visit again. “Coming.”   

     “Enjolras, it’s not visiting hours.” Combeferre says gently, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. The blond was awake when their friends were here earlier. He sat between Feuilly and Éponine and smiled most of the time. If he doesn’t remember that, Combeferre needs to talk with Larose. From the bed, he can see the slow build of tears in his best friend’s blue eyes. “I’m sorry.”   

     “No. Coming.” He shakes his head, avoiding his friend’s sympathetic look. His friends come when he wakes up. He missed the alarm today but he woke up so suddenly that it had to be the shrill ringing. Combeferre is just getting really fast at turning it off. “Coming, Ferre.”   

     “Why don’t we go for a walk?”   

     Enjolras glances towards the door one last time before turning to Combeferre and giving him a small, hopeful smile. “Outside?”   

     “Of course.”

     “All them?” He asks as Combeferre moves around the room, gathering the layers needed for the chilly October day.    

     “They’ll come tomorrow.” He tells him, pulling a sweater out from the bottom drawer. Maybe Enjolras is confused because they moved rooms. Certainly that has some effect on his understanding of the surroundings. From what Combeferre has read about traumatic brain injuries, routine and schedules are key. In this week alone, Enjolras has been moved to a new, long term room, fought over keeping his cast in fear of losing Grantaire’s drawing, and started with a new physical therapist because he refused to move for his last one. No one is sure why he didn’t like his last doctor but Combeferre has a feeling that the woman was overly peppy for Enjolras’ liking but he’s not so sure about this new one. His cast was thrown out, which Enjolras was not happy about, but Grantaire drew a copy on a large sheet of paper that hangs on the closet door. It’s great that he has a nearly identical drawing however now all he has to look at on his arm are the series of complicated straps, not his friend’s happy faces. That’s a lot to adjust to in one week. Combeferre sighs. Maybe it’s just because Enjolras was startled awake for some unknown reason. “After your speech lesson with Valjean,” Combeferre says steadily as he disconnects his friend for the machines tucked behind his bed, “everyone will come visit.”  

     “Tomorrow.” Enjolras nods, but looks discouraged by the answer.     

     “Yes. Tomorrow.” Combeferre pulls a sweater over his friend’s head and smiles when his face comes back in view. “But for now, let’s go outside.”     

     “Yes. Please.” The blond grins as Combeferre sets a quick kiss on his forehead before turning to grab their highjacked wheelchair. Enjolras pulls his arms through the sleeves so he’s ready when Combeferre turns to help him off the bed. Feuilly fucked with the locking system long enough to eventually disable it. Now they can go as far as the bench behind the school without the wheels jamming on them.   

     There’s a happy bounce in Combeferre’s step that Enjolras watches with an amused smile. Combeferre has a plan for today because the speech lessons went well and there was no physical therapy, meaning Enjolras should have a decent amount of energy. It’s been a good day and Combeferre always tries to have dinner outside the room when they can. If Enjolras moves, if he gets out of the room, especially if he gets outside, the good days are more likely to stay good days. When it rains, they sit on a bench under a large window in the maternity ward. That wing of the hospital is a light, happy place where the action is easy enough to understand, along with being a rather exhausting walk for Enjolras. Usually it’s enough to wear him out for a good nights sleep, which is becoming rarer and rarer as he fights it harder and harder for reasons Combeferre can only stress about, despite Larose’s insistence that _sleep disruptions are normal following traumatic brain injuries_. But today is sunny  for the first time in a week and Enjolras hasn’t been out in nearly two so it's not enough for Combeferre to miss the opportunity to get outside.   

     Combeferre's spirits lift even more when, spying the red knit hat in his hands, Enjolras folds his arms defiantly across his chest. Sitting in the wheelchair makes him seem younger, a petulant child with that scowl, and he sets Combeferre with a glare that he hasn’t seen in months. The glare is met with a growing smile, one that Combeferre doesn’t try to bite back, and an amused chuckle because it’s always a good thing when Enjolras fights and he hasn’t seen Enjolras fight in far too long. Still, it’ll be dark soon and in a few weeks it’ll be too cold to go outside. Therefore Combeferre asks him not to be stubborn.

     The blond leans towards the window to confirm it’s brilliantly sunny outside, the kind of weather that doesn’t deem the hat necessary. Especially the red knit hat that was recently bought for the upcoming winter for it’s warmth, the warmest Courfeyrac could find, per Joly’s suggestion. With a wave of his hand, Enjolras says, “Sun.”   

     “It’s October,” says Combeferre in way of explanation.   

     Shaking his head, Enjolras reminds him, “Not sick.”   

     “No," Combeferre agrees. “But you’re still vulnerable.”   

     “What?” He asks, challenging his friend.   

     “To infections, colds, pain from the titanium plates. We don't know how the cold will affect them yet.” Combeferre lists, grinning at Enjolras’ eye roll. His jaw is set and Combeferre loves that this could take all day, even with Enjolras not being able to properly talk, but their days of getting outside are limited. To cut the fight short, he aims low. “Wear it for me? Please?”   

     Smiling, and not the least bit remorseful at Enjolras’ suddenly guilt filled eyes, Combeferre steps forward and fits the hat over his short blond hair. Enjolras lets out a small laugh before saying, “You. Love you.”

     He means _I’ll only wear it because I love you_ , but he doesn’t have those words anymore. Tears fill his eyes, feeling overwhelmingly grateful for his best friend. He wants to say _thank you, thank you for everything, for being here every day, for being here for me, for being you and I love you for all of that and more._ The words don’t come. They don’t even reach his tongue but Combeferre knows, because Combeferre always knows, and to make sure Enjolras is aware of this, he kisses his pale forehead in the middle of the scar.

     As Combeferre folds a blanket for when the sun starts to set, Enjolras chews his lip, trying to determine the pieces between the life he had and the life he has now, and then the life that waits outside of the hospital. It’s enough to raise a panic in his chest, as it usually does, followed by tears, but before it can manifest into a full fledged anxiety attack because of the unknown spaces in his head, Combeferre is in front of him asking if he’s ready to go. The giddy stance, the wide grin, the excited voice is all enough to break Enjolras’ limited attention and he forgets how frustrated, and, even worse, how scared he is. Instead, he laughs and points, _Onward Monsieur Ferre_.   

     They stop by the break room where, to Enjolras’ delighted surprise, Joly is eating. It’s hard to tell time on a twelve hour shift. Combeferre parks the wheelchair next to the table, then pulls out the dinner Musichetta packed for them. He smiles, noticing it’s the same Joly is eating now. She must just make extras with them in mind. The microwave whirls to life and it pulls Enjolras’ attention away. When he turns back to Joly, the med student asks, “What happened with your physical therapy?”   

     _I finished_ , signs Enjolras with a smirk.

     Joly throws his head back in a surprised laugh. Seeing him walk is strange enough but seeing him joking is almost unbelievable. With the luxury of being able to see Enjolras through out the day, Joly gets a front row seat to every high and every low. From the jokes and laughter to the tears and despair. Even when his cries and Joly’s heart breaks against the sound, against Combeferre’s pained uselessness, against the medical understanding that this won’t be better in a day, a week, a month, there’s the realization that this could be worse. Enjolras could be dead. Visiting a hospital is better than visiting a graveyard.    

     He looks to Combeferre where he’s standing by the counter behind Enjolras, waiting for the microwave but watching his friend with a loving smile, small and gentle. There’s no doubt these days remind him of the simple fact that Enjolras is alive. “He said he finished with his PT.”   

     “Smart ass.” Combeferre says. His smile shifts to a wide grin as he swats Enjolras playfully on the back of the head. The microwave beeps and he shares a smile with Joly before turning to pull out their food. These are the calm, quiet moments where the strict visiting hours seem to make sense.   

     “I know her.” Joly tells Enjolras. “I think you hurt her feelings. She liked you, E.”   

     Enjolras makes a face, something between disgust and a painful grimace. “Pretty.”   

     “She was pretty?”     

     “No. Pretty. Me.”   

     “She thought you were pretty?” Joly tries.   

     “Yes.” He nods, adding a soft _awe_ sound as if repeating what she must have often said around him. “And not child.”   

     “You sure as hell act like one sometimes.” Combeferre says, raising his eyebrows at Enjolras when the blond turns to him.       

     _Smart ass_ , he signs to Joly with a head nod toward Combeferre. They both laugh and Enjolras grins, alternating between his two friends happily. Combeferre steps forward and kisses the top of his head before going back to packing the food. On the good days, the happy days, it’s hard to keep himself from grabbing Enjolras in a tight hug, from kissing him on every available spot, from laughing loudly and manically. Courfeyrac often does just that and he’s Enjolras’ loud comfort, his giddy and overly affectionate support when needed. Combeferre’s normal expressions are a little quieter and harder to contain when the happiness is tingling in his fingertips so he does it anyway he can with soft kisses and gentle touches, broad smiles and excited words.   

     “She treated you like a child?” Joly asks. The blond yawns and he has to ask again before Enjolras nods his answer. “Knowing her, then yeah, I can see that. And knowing you, I understand why that’s enough justification to refuse to move. Who’s your new one now?”   

     Enjolras looks down, searches for the name. When it fails him, he glances to Combeferre for help. Combeferre winks then answers, “Javert.”   

     “Javert?” Joly repeats.   

     “Yeah. Why? Do you know him?”   

     “Only heard about him.” Joly says with a significant look to Combeferre, because what he’s heard is far worse than cooing at his patients. “He’s good, one of the best really, but he’s a hard ass. A dick is actually the word I’ve heard most often used.”    

     “Jol!” Enjolras suddenly says, shifting in the wheelchair. It startles both of the other boys out of their side conversation. Enjolras is smiling, his voice light, so they share an amused look before turning to hear what he has to say.   

     “Yes?”   

     “You.” Enjolras beams as if that solves everything. His friend smiles back patiently. After searching and failing for the words, he falls back on repeating the few words he's sure of. “Jol! Please? You.”   

     “Me what?” Joly ask. When Enjolras taps his new arm brace he sighs, giving his friend an apologetic smile. “Where I’d love to be you’re new physical therapist, I’m afraid I’m not qualified.”   

     “So?”   

     “So I wouldn’t be able to help.”   

     “You’d be writing with your left hand for years, E, if Joly were to teach you,” says Combeferre. He hands Enjolras the bag of food, who wraps his hands carefully around it, a tangible reminder to keep it from tumbling off his lap. They’ve lost two lunches that way.   

     To Joly, Enjolras grins hopefully, trying to convince him. “You good.”   

     “Not at PT. I’d probably treat you like a child, too.” Joly squeezes his shoulder. “Have a good picnic, E. I’ll come by and see you later, okay?”   

     “Please. Bye Jol.”   

     “Bye Enjolras. See you later Combeferre.”   

     Combeferre wheels Enjolras out of the room and out of the hospital. As they pass familiar nurses Enjolras waves before getting distracted by digging through the lunch bag. He triumphantly finds the bag of cookies Musichetta always packs, giving a soft but clear, _yes!_ They turn a corner and he glances around to get a better bearing of where he is. Watching the trees pass, he calls Combeferre’s name as a realization strikes.

     _I like Joly_ , he signs to him.   

     “Use your words.” Combeferre says kindly.

     “Jol.”   

     “Yeah?”    

     “Like Jol.” The blond says with a decisive nod. Combeferre notes that most of his words today are on the list Valjean gave him to work on this week. He’ll gladly share that with the doctor.   

     “Me too. He’s a keeper. Chetta and Boss are lucky, aren’t they?” He says with a laugh.   

     “Jol too.”   

     “Joly’s lucky too.” Combeferre agrees. “You’ve seen Chetta.”   

     Enjolras raises his eyebrows suggestively. “Boss. Too.”

     “Look at you! You’re worse than Courfeyrac.” Combeferre laughs loudly.

     “Quiet.” Enjolras defends himself.   

     “Yes. You're much quieter but that’s because you respect social norms. Courf thinks it’s part of his charm.”   

     “We luck.”   

     “We’re lucky?” Combeferre guesses. Enjolras nods. “Because of our friends?”   

     He nods again, pointing to himself. “Me.”   

     “With you?”   

     “No.” Enjolras says softly. “Me.”   

     “You’re lucky?”   

     “Yes. You. Jol. All them.” The blond glances over his shoulder to make sure Combeferre understood his broken words and receives a firm kiss on his forehead. He laughs, focusing on the way Combeferre practically skips the rest of the way to their bench and the sudden hoards of children running out on to the playground at the sound of the bell. Combeferre pauses in getting out the food and Enjolras stops fussing with the straps of his cast to watch the delightful squeals and bubbly giggles of the children.    

     Right by the fence an intense game of kickball starts between two groups of kids. The deliberations of who will kick first catches Enjolras’ attention. His gaze is so fixated that he doesn’t notice Combeferre studying his profile. Lately his blue eyes have been more active in his clear attempts to speak, usually lit in disappointment and frustration, but fiery nonetheless. Every day there are glimpses and flashes of his best friend before the accident. Moments with narrowed focus and clear eyes. When Combeferre catches him like this, he finds his chest warm with pure happiness at the simple fact that his favorite person in the world, the one person he loves more than anything else, is alive. That Enjolras is within arms’ reach, beating heart and full lungs. That he talks and smiles and breathes. It doesn’t matter that his speech is debatable, rare at times, or that his smiles take effort, that sometimes at night a machine shrieks because his breathing drops lower than it should. Combeferre can hug him. Can kiss him, laugh with him, hold him, can tell him he loves him. The reality of how close he came to losing Enjolras is never far from his mind.   

     Combeferre is so caught up in soaking in that smile twitching on his best friend’s lips, the slight upturn of his eyes, the affection for the children, that he jumps when Enjolras suddenly turns to him. His smile doesn’t fall. If anything, it grows. Whatever was on Enjolras’ mind that caused him to turn leaves his tongue at the smile on Combeferre’s face. Combeferre doesn’t explain it. He simply squeezes Enjolras’ arm and goes back to unpacking their food. When he hands Enjolras the thermos, he pauses, staring at his best friend with the same happy grin. Enjolras smiles shyly. “What?”   

     “I’m really happy you’re okay.” Combeferre says softly, signing along with his words to make sure Enjolras understands him. “I love you, E.”   

     “Love you Ferre,” returns Enjolras. He looks a bit confused at the sudden admission but can hear the heavy emotion laced in his best friend’s voice. It's enough to force him to focus. Combeferre leans forward to press their foreheads together, then kiss the scar on his forehead before digging in to what Musichetta cooked for them.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

     On his pillow the kitten rolls to his back, offering Grantaire his belly. A few flecks of green paint chips off his fingers and when he pauses to pick them out, the kitten’s paws grab on to his hand. The artist laughs. The sound rings out in the quiet apartment over the soft rumbling of the kitten’s chest. The fluffy tabby is a pleasant addition to his small studio. Dante is Enjolras’, whether he remembers the cat or not, and having the pet around makes Grantaire think of him. He’s almost always thinking of Enjolras but instead of the tragic, despairing images it’s the bright smile, the sharp, surprised laugh Enjolras gave when Grantaire handed the kitten over the first time. Looking at the fluffy kitten fills Grantaire’s ears with that lovely sound. It’s almost enough to cover the screaming.   

     It’s late and the stars fill his apartment brighter than his single soft lamp, but Grantaire can’t sleep. He doesn’t like sleep. Blood coats his hands and cries fill his ears. It’s far harder to fall asleep now without the wine. Or the vodka, whiskey, and rum. It's been ten days now without any aides. Ten days. Ten days and his hands shake from withdraw. Ten days and a month to go.   

     “I’m not going to drink anymore.” Grantaire sat on the chair, holding Enjolras’ hand in both of his own. The blond blinked at him, then narrowed his eyes before glancing to Combeferre on the other side of the bed. Grantaire squeezed his hand, hoping that if he held it tightly enough Enjolras would understand what he’s saying. When they were first told about the newly enforced visitors hours Grantaire felt sick. Jehan cried and Bahorel punched the wall until Feuilly pulled him back. It turns out that Enjolras’ doctor, the one reinstating the rule, didn’t even know about the cat. Still, Grantaire felt responsible. Maybe there's some deeper guilt lying in the fact that he couldn’t stop this from happening all together but for whatever reason Grantaire _had_ to do something. “Not until you are out of the hospital and we can get a drink together, okay?"

     He wasn’t asking him out, he was making a deal. Enjolras and Grantaire would get better together. A nurse had stood by the door, waiting to kick Grantaire out, but she’s one of the few who still willingly bend the clock for the Amis. The nurses may agree with the doctor but a few extra minutes usually earns them a smile from Enjolras, that shamelessly delighted, nose crinkling grin the next time they see him.    

     The short two hours are still painful for the Amis. Far too much time passes between visits but it’s hard to fight now when Enjolras can manage two, sometimes three walks a day. When his cast is just a soft brace and he can sometimes have full conversations. But that is if he slept through the night, which only happens every few days now. The physical improvements are encouraging beyond words and even though the Amis are still trying to sneak visits, they don’t outright fight it. They can’t because the doctor was right.   

     “I’ll buy, alright? You, me, everyone. We’ll celebrate at the Musain.” Grantaire had said. Enjolras blinked at him. He looked upset that he couldn’t answer.    

     “He doesn’t know what you’re saying, R.” Combeferre said softly, his voice laced with sympathy.    

     “But he knows what I mean. Right?”   

     Combeferre sighed, not having the heart to correct him. “I'm sure he gets it.”   

     “I tried to tell him in sign language but he’s not paying attention.”   

     “It was a long night.”   

     “It’s always a long night.” Grantaire mumbled. The nurse cleared her throat and he took the time to kiss Enjolras’ hand.   

     Tomorrow, Grantaire will bring Dante to the hospital. The cat and the recently completed sketchpad for Enjolras. Per Combeferre’s request, he's started to add words to the comics, hoping to get Enjolras used to reading again. The characters he draws for Enjolras are their friends, in short little pieces of their lives to give him glimpses of their world outside of the hospital. It’s easy to fill sketchbooks with Enjolras’ smile flooding his vision instead of the wine and it’s easier to buy the sketchbooks without an always open bar tab. There’s no reason to go out for drinks, and without the Amis in the Musain is rather quiet now, so Grantaire covers his hands in ink and paint. It makes it easier to wake up when he knows Enjolras will smile giddily at the large book and kitten in his hands. According to Combeferre, Enjolras can’t focus on anything longer than ten minutes except for the drawings. Enjolras sits, flipping through book after book after book and Grantaire almost cries when he sees the blonds’ ink stained fingers.    

     There’s a knock on the door and both Grantaire and the kitten freeze at the sound before glancing to the door. It takes him several minutes to crawl out of the cocoon of blankets he planned on hiding in until morning. The knocking continues and Grantaire keeps the kitten against his chest, padding against the short apartment to open the door and yell at whoever decided to pull him from his pretend sleep.   

     Bahorel stands in the door frame. His short black hair is standing straight up, his eyes wide and breathing frantic. Grantaire’s chest constricts in concern until his friend asks, “You’re gay, right R?”   

     “Do you know what time it is?”   

     In the hall, Bahorel nods but doesn’t answer. “You’re gay, though. Right?”  

     Grantaire sighs, leaving his door open for Bahorel as he turns back to his apartment. The larger man follows, his footsteps heavy and quick. He throws himself face first across to his bed, burying his face in the blankets. The artist leans back and sets the kitten on his chest. “What’s wrong, buddy?” Grantaire asks dutifully.    

     “You’re gay.” Bahorel says again.   

     “Yes. We’ve established that but I’m not sure why that would make you so distressed.”   

     “I kissed Feuilly.”   

     Grantaire sits up so quickly the kitten’s claws latch on to his chest in a painful grip. “What?”   

     “I kissed Feuilly and it was so weird,” whines Bahorel. He flips over to his back, eyes shut in a grimace.    

     “Why?” Grantaire asks with a laugh.   

     Sighing in to the blankets, Bahorel explains, “We were sitting there. Drinking, you know, and I just turned to him, looked at him, and thought, maybe.”    

     “So, how was it?”   

     Bahorel throws his arms over his head, as if trying to hide from the memory. His words are muffled but it also keeps him from seeing Grantaire's smirk. "His five o’clock shadow scratched my face and he tasted like cigarettes and beer. He pushed me away and laughed, said _it’s not you, it’s your penis_. God it was so weird.”   

     Despite his best efforts, Grantaire bursts out laughing. “Here,” he says as he drops Dante on his friend's chest as Bahorel rolls over to look at him, “take the cat.”   

     “I thought it would be really easy to just be gay and date Feuilly because,” he sighs, scratching under the kitten’s chin. “That would be perfect but boys are gross and we smell and we aren’t curvy and soft like girls.”    

     The artist nods, humming and confirming thoughtlessly as he pulls out a new sketchpad. His fingers work quickly as Bahorel continues to describe the scene. When he pauses, Grantaire eggs him own with _Did Feuilly say anything else?_ or _Then what happened?_

     When four pages are full, only missing colors, Grantaire takes pity on his friend and climbs back on to the bed. “It’s not that bad.”    

     “Really? I kissed my best friend and hated it. I mean, I love Feuilly but I don’t want to fuck him. Now what happens?”   

     “Enjolras and Combeferre love each other but they don’t want to fuck. That doesn’t make it weird.”   

     “That’s because Combeferre isn’t gay.”   

     “Neither are you.”  

     Bahorel stares at him, as if he didn’t realize that. _How much has he drank tonight_ , Grantaire wonders with a sympathetic smile at his friend’s internal conflict. “You’re right.”   

     “I usually am.”   

     “And Feuilly’s not gay.”   

     “As far as I know.”   

     “Great.” Bahorel grins, then nods as he declares, “You know, if I were gay, I’d probably have a tough choice between you and Feuilly.”   

     “You aren’t my type.”   

     “That’s right. You prefer Apollo to Hercules.” Bahorel flexes his arms to show off his rather impressive biceps. Grantaire laughs and the other man’s face falls serious as he studies the artist. His smile softens along with his voice when he says, “Thanks, R.”   

     “Anytime, man.” Grantaire says, flipping on to his stomach. He yawns, pulling a corner of the blanket over his legs. “If you sleep here tonight, you won’t try to kiss me, right?”   

     “Hell no. You’re scruffier than Feuilly is.”  

     Grantaire laughs, then sits up long enough to steal Dante back, before curling against his large friend. It’s easier to sleep that way, with the heavy weight next to him, and when they wake up with Bahorel’s arm around Grantaire’s stomach and the artist pressed against his chest, well, it’s not weird at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat or hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


	29. October 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavroche shows up and Combeferre gets asked to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so, so sorry it's taken so long for me to update! Especially because I promised to get better. It's been a crazy few weeks but I'll get better, I promise! (It's different this time!) This chapter is unedited (to post it quicker) so I'll probably update it later.
> 
> Again, thank you all for the wonderful comments!! I'll be honest, they definitely encourage me to update quicker and they, I know I keep repeating this, make my day!

       A soft chuckle drifts across the room and Combeferre smiles because without fail, it’s the same laugh that will ring out every ten minutes. He doesn’t have to look up to know Enjolras is leaning over the book in his lap, squinting at the pages. The blond is running his finger along the curving lines, studying each face as best as his vision will allow him. Pride won’t let him wear his glasses for this but it’s only a matter of time before he asks for them. Then he’ll start back at the beginning and go through the book again, laughing at the same pictures, lingering on the same pages, gushing at each delightful representation of his friends. Courfeyrac will look up from the work in his lap and listen to Enjolras’ broken commentary, smiling and agreeing. When Courfeyrac talks now, he signs along with his words because his accent makes it all that harder for Enjolras to understand and still, Enjolras misses more with him than anyone else. On the tougher days, it can bring guilty tears to Enjolras’ eyes and agonizing ones to Courfeyrac's.   

    Today it’s easier. Combeferre hears the steady French response from Courfeyrac and the echoing laugh from Enjolras but he looks up anyway because he loves the lively, brillant flush on Enjolras’ face. When it’s just the three of them, they speak french. It would be heartbreaking for him to lose his mother’s language because of this. It still seems easier for him to understand at times. Chuckling softly along with the light conversation, Combeferre turns back to his computer. The page he’s reading isn’t lively and bright but disheartening and foreboding. His notebook is nearly full with  _must do_ ’s and it only ever seems to grow. With every one item crossed off, there are three more added. _Instructions for stove, oven, coffee pot, apartment buzzer, and shower. Updated calendar. Budget for E’s hospital bills. Schedule for Courf and I so he’s never alone_. Combeferre is already taking this semester of grad school off but maybe he’ll take the spring semester off as well. His parents could support him. They’ve already offered to. It’s a matter of maintaining his teaching position for the next fall semester because Enjolras will be better by then. He has to be better by then. _Friends and emergency contacts somewhere easily seen and remembered. Place for keys, phone, wallet, and other important items for Enjolras to leave every time because routine is key! Sleep schedule, confirm with Larose when released ideal timetable_.   

    Transitions are supposed to be hard and moving from the hospital back home will be one of the biggest he goes through. If Enjolras struggled with changing rooms, certainly buildings will throw him for a loop. It’s daunting and unnerving and could all go horribly wrong. So Combeferre checks and double checks the list, then discusses it with Courfeyrac to ensure it’s all done right, then confirms it with Larose and checks it again. On the bed, he sighs and looks back to Enjolras because his laugh makes him smile and then it all seems easier. No matter what Combeferre has to do, it’s nothing compared to what Enjolras does just to talk with his friends. He doesn't have a reason to complain. After one more quick glance to his friends on the couch, Combeferre goes back to reading through the best ways to help when they get home.    

    When Enjolras speaks, he looks up again, not expecting the question. The blond has his head tilted away from Courfeyrac, his fingers running over the four inch scar under his ear on his neck. Courfeyrac reaches out, brushing his fingers across his skin tenderly as Enjolras asks a second time. “It’s bad?”     

    “Bad? No,” says Courfeyrac. He pulls his hand away and Enjolras turns to hear his answer. “It’s not bad at all.”   

    “No?” Enjolras asks, dropping his gaze self-consciously before glancing back up to see his friend’s answer.    

    “No. Not at all. In fact, I really like it.” Courfeyrac grins. “It makes you look mysterious.”    

    Enjolras knits his brow. “What?”   

    “I like it. You look like a bad ass. I think it’s sexy.”    

    “Sexy?” The blond repeats with a disbelieving laugh. He shakes his head, face falling a little as he adds a quieter, “Nah.”   

    As he focuses on carefully closing the sketchbook in his lap, Courfeyrac glances to Combeferre with a smirk and angled eyes. There’s no mistaking that he’s planning something. Combeferre smiles, waiting patiently to watch it unfold. Enjolras places the sketchbook on the table next to the couch, a thoughtful, unhappy look on his face as he clearly disagrees with Courfeyrac’s comment. With a carefully measured amount of energy, Courfeyrac suddenly jumps on Enjolras, planting kisses along his jaw and down his neck as if unable to get his point across any other way. Giggling against the attack of affection, Enjolras can only try to return it when he can. Combeferre closes his laptop, exchanging the stressful planning to watch the delightful scene.    

    The two boys roll off the couch and even though Combeferre knows Enjolras isn’t breakable, he still flinches. Courfeyrac had felt the tug back before they tumbled and wrapped a secure arm around Enjolras’ shoulders to keep him as close to his chest as possible, making sure there was no chance of him hitting the tile floor. They both release a relieved sigh when Enjolras rolls to his back, fighting between catching his breath and laughing loudly.       

    The door opens and Combeferre reluctantly glances up. Courfeyrac lifts his head from the floor, his smile still caught between laughs. Catching Joly’s controlled smile in the doorway, he kisses Enjolras on the temple one last time before sitting up. The blond looks at Courfeyrac first, then over to the door where his friend is staring. He smiles when he spies Joly, rolling on to his stomach to sit up next to Courfeyrac.    

    “Hey, Jol!” He shouts excitedly.    

    Suspicion stirs in the other two boys as Joly keeps the door narrow, only allowing his head to show. He smiles at Enjolras but Joly’s bedside manner is rather deceiving. Courfeyrac and Combeferre share a bemused look as Joly disappears for a few seconds, closing the door almost completely, before popping his head through again. “Hey Ferre, can I have a word?”   

    “Sure.” Combeferre shuffles off the bed with a measured sense of dread. When he steps in to the hall, Joly closes the door. Enjolras looks to Courfeyrac, tilting his head in that questioning way he has of doing when he knows he’s missed something but all his friend can do is shrug.    

    “I was hoping you knew.” Courfeyrac tells him. When Enjolras looks back to the door, worry settles across his features and it tugs at his friend’s heart. Not knowing how else to fix it, Courfeyrac simply jumps on the blond a second time. It’s enough to distract them both from whatever’s important enough to keep the door closed.    

    As Combeferre opens his mouth to ask Joly what’s wrong, the words die on his tongue. Standing there next to the intern, with his arms crossed over his chest and looking rather imposing, stands Éponine’s twelve year old brother. The small boy narrows his eyes as he studies Combeferre. Raising his eyebrows, Combeferre glances from his friend, to the child, then back. Joly only shrugs. “I found him chatting with a few nurses trying to find E’s room.” Joly says with a small, amused smile. “I figured I’d drop him off with you.”   

    The man pats Combeferre’s arm, then ruffles the kids hair before leaving. Pursing his lips, Combeferre glances around the mostly empty hall. Only a few nurses are moving around, a couple patients being wheeled by. When he looks back to the kid, Combeferre catches the fallen guard as he tries to peer around Combeferre as if he could see through the closed door. Combeferre knows Éponine has been keeping her little brother away from the hospital, hoping to wait until Enjolras was home before bringing him by.    

    “Hey Gavroche.” He says cautiously. “Is Ép here?”   

    “No.”    

    When he doesn’t elaborate, Combeferre nods slowly. “Okay. Does Éponine know you’re here?”   

    “No.” Gavroche uncrosses his arms and somehow he looks threatening, despite being twelve. “And she won’t know. I’m here to talk to you.”   

    “Me? You’re not here to see Enjolras?”   

    The boy hesitates. “Well yes. If I can. If he’s allowed to see me. If it won’t hurt him or anything. Can I?”   

    “I think it depends.”       

    “On what?”   

    “On why you came to see me and how pissed Éponine is going to be.”   

    Regaining his aggressive stance, he leans towards Combeferre. In a whisper, the twelve year old threatens, “I just came here to tell you that if you break my sister’s heart, I’ll break your knee caps.”   

    Combeferre nods slowly, pursing his lips thoughtfully. Fighting the urge to laugh, he asks, “Who would drive Enjolras to his physical therapy classes then?”   

    Gavroche’s face falls in sudden fear as if realizing it would interfere to Enjolras. His wide eyes glance from the man in front of him to the door behind him. It’s the first time he’s looked like a kid since Joly left. “Courf could drive him,” is his quiet suggestion.   

    “Courfeyrac has had his license suspended. He’s not a very good driver. What if he crashed?”   

    “Éponine could.”   

    “Éponine would be busy taking care of me with two broken knee caps.”   

    “Jehan. He has a car.”   

    “He does but he hasn’t driven in three years.” Combeferre reminds him with an amused smile. The boy drops his gaze to the floor as he searches for an answer. Chuckling, he ends the game and asks, “Do you want to see him?”   

    “Can I?”   

    “If you promise not to sneak up behind me and break something.”       

    “You like my sister?”   

    “I think I love her.” The man admits.   

    Gavroche smiles, then nods. “Alright then.”   

    “So that’s settled?”   

    “Yep.”   

    “Let’s see Enjolras.”     

    “Wait.” The boy says softly. He hunches his shoulders, suddenly questioning whether there was a bigger reason Éponine was keeping him away, something like she’s afraid he’d hurt Enjolras. “It’s okay?”   

    “Absolutely. And if it gets to a point where it’s not, I’ll let you know.” He promises as he opens the door. There’s a split second of hesitation before the boy is sprinting in to the room as if Combeferre is going to change his mind if he doesn’t move fast enough. Chuckling, Combeferre follows him in. Just as before there is a moment of uncertainty where Gavroche waits for the recognition to cross Enjolras’ face before giving him a jumping hug. Courfeyrac grabs the sketchbook from his friend’s lap just in time to save it from being crumpled. “Hey, Courf.” Combeferre calls softly as he grabs his phone from the nightstand. “I’m going to call Ép.”   

    Courfeyrac nods, turning back to smile at the fierce hug next to him as Combeferre steps out. He calls his girlfriend in the break room and laughs at her rather unimpressed response. According to her, Gavroche has been planning something and if it’s a trip to the hospital to see Enjolras then she’s happy. Taking advantage of the phone call, he chats with her for a long period of time before hanging up with the promise to get Gavroche home safely. On his way back to the room, he’s stopped by Joly again. This time Larose and Valjean are with him. The second wave of suspicion rises faster and along with it the sudden desire to throw up.   

    “Hi Combeferre,” Valjean smiles warmly.   

    Combeferre returns the friendly greetings despite the growing concern, then knits is brow. “I thought his speech lesson was this afternoon.”   

    “It is.” Larose confirms. “However, we wanted to have a word with you.”   

    “Okay. What’s up?” He nods, swallowing his fear and his breakfast.   

    “We believe that Enjolras may be able to go home in a few weeks.” The doctor says. In his shock, Combeferre turns to Joly for confirmation. His friend nods and although it’s restrained with a sort of caution Combeferre only hears that  _Enjolras can go home!_ The following  _however_ cuts it down faster than his heart can adjust. In a way, Combeferre’s thankful for it. “However, in our professional opinion, we don’t think that Enjolras is nearly as independent as he could be or as he should be.”   

    A little taken back, Combeferre tilts his head. His smile remains hopeful despite every nerve in his body telling him to run. Combeferre doesn't like the careful tone of the conversation. “In what way?”   

    “In a few ways,” says Valjean. “His speech isn’t where we had hoped it would be and his temper is still an issue.”   

    “Enjolras has always had a bit of a temper.” Combeferre defends.   

    “So I’ve been told but it’s becoming more common for us to have to stop our speech lessons due to it. Which only further interferes with his speech.”   

    “But if you knew him before, you’d be proud at how well he’s been behaving.”   

    “Ferre,” Joly says gently. They all know Combeferre won’t fight nearly as viscously as he would with just the doctors. Even though it’s their job to make sure Enjolras is healthy, it’s a priority for Joly to make sure he’s happy. They may have Enjolras’ best interest in mind but Joly definitely does. “There may be a solution.”   

    “We’d like to ask you to start spending a few nights a week at home.” Larose states flatly.    

    “What?” Combeferre takes a step towards the man before realizing what he’s doing and stepping back. His hands go straight to his glasses, then run through his hair anxiously. The threat of tears is already lingering. “Why? He still wakes up in the middle of the night.”   

    The doctor nods. “Exactly. And you communicate for him, handle the nurses for him, comfort him.”    

    “I only do that because he wakes up scared and confused in the hospital. It won’t be the same at home.”   

    Valjean’s kind voice raises a little in a call for attention. It’s clear he agrees with Larose. “Combeferre, his independence will be something that we must consider when looking at his release.”   

    “Night is an ideal time for him to adjust to being alone and to take up some of that control,” adds Larose.   

    “But he won’t be alone when he’s released.”   

    “That’s not a factor.” It’s easy for Larose to say despite the pain it sends through Combeferre’s chest.   

    “That’s the only factor! Because when he wakes up scared and confused at home, I’ll be there to help!”   

    Joly puts a hand on his friend’s arm and the fight fades from his shoulders almost immediately. With his hands on his hips and his breathing quick, Combeferre glances to him for help. “It’s just something to consider.”   

    “We can’t force you to do it but we believe it could help.” Larose says. They wait for a response but Combeferre only takes a deep breath before ducking in to Enjolras’ room.    

    That’s ridiculous! To leave Enjolras? Alone? In a hospital? No. Absolutely not. How could they even ask him to consider it? _Because it could help_. Combeferre ignores that part for now. It’s easy to when Gavroche and Enjolras are having an intense conversation, silent and quick, that brings a burst of laughter from them every few minutes. They both look up and smile when Combeferre walks in.    

    “Hey, Ferre!” Enjolras greets before going back to the kid. His hands are fluid, the conversation steady in a way Combeferre doesn’t often see and he’s not particularly surprised to see Gavroche has some how managed to learn sign language. He does wonder how long he’s been planning this trip though. Without taking the time to see what they’re talking about, judging by the almost intense focus it’s either a debate or they’re scheming, Combeferre sinks in to one of the chairs. He watches Enjolras until it hurts, then drops his gaze to his feet. To go home without Enjolras? What if he doesn’t want to go home because he really doesn’t want to go home.   

    A foot to his own startles him but the smile from Courfeyrac lights his face in to something similar. His friend nods questioningly. Quietly, Combeferre says, “I’ll tell you later.”  

    Courfeyrac nods his understanding and they both narrow their eyes in a heatless scowl when Gavroche glances over his shoulder. It’s another hour before Enjolras starts to shift restlessly on the couch. There are a series of head shakes to wake himself back up yet his signs continue to grow sloppy and more disjointed. Gavroche flows with it but as the minutes pass and it gets harder to communicate with Enjolras he glances over his shoulder to the other two boys. They smile reassuringly until he turns back, then they watch Enjolras. He’s fighting sleep harder than usual, most likely to keep it up for Gavroche and they give him as much time as he can manage with the boy. There’s a moment when it flips, where Enjolras’ sighs are less tired and more frustrated. Before he can reach out for Combeferre, stumble off the couch in an attempt to fight it, throw something in his anger, or scare Gavroche somehow Courfeyrac is standing up. He moves to help Enjolras off the couch while Combeferre grabs his keys from the nightstand.    

    “Can’t I stay just a few more minutes?” Gavroche asks Combeferre, any façade of being tough disappear at the prospect of leaving his friend. His eyes flicker to where Courfeyrac’s hand is mostly supporting Enjolras under his arm, the way the blond is leaning heavily in to his friend.   

    “If you go without a fight, I’ll talk to Éponine about letting you come back on the weekends. I’m not promising anything but I’ll be on your side.” Combeferre tells him. He smiles when the boy hugs Enjolras fiercely. Small tears build in both their eyes. Before leaving, Combeferre kisses Enjolras’ forehead. It startles him when his friend grabs his sleeve, silently asking him where he’s going. The pain in Combeferre’s chest is so sudden he almost considers calling a cab for Gavroche but Courfeyrac wraps his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. The way the blond practically sinks in to the embrace makes it obvious just how long he’s been fighting the exhaustion for their sake. “I’ll be right back, E.”   

    The first half of the car ride is as silent as the walk out of the hospital was and it startles Combeferre when the boy apologizes. “I’m sorry if I get you in trouble with my sister.”   

    “Don’t tell her I told you this but she sounded more entertained than upset.”   

    “Really?”   

    “Really. Next time, though, just ask. Or at least leave a note. And don’t skip school.”    

    Combeferre glances at the boy glaring at him. There’s a worrisome moment when he expects him to question who Combeferre thinks he is, _you’re not my uncle, ya know_ , but instead the kid just nods. “I like you Combeferre.”   

    He laughs and it’s echoed by the kid. “Good. I like you too.”   

    They fall quiet again but it’s more comfortable than before. Gavroche only breaks it to ask Combeferre to stay for dinner. If it’s to ensure he remembers his promise to convince Éponine or just because he actually likes the time together, Combeferre can’t be sure. Combeferre also won’t deny the possibility that the kid knows he’s upset and thinks Éponine can help. The boy is so aware of emotions it’s almost a super power. The last reason is reinforced when he quickly disappears to the guest room after dinner. Éponine makes him coffee instead of a drink, knowing he’ll drive back to the hospital, and sits close to him on the couch. Without any pretense, he suddenly confesses, “They want me to leave him at night.”   

    “For your sake or his?” Éponine asks as she shifts a little closer against his chest. She smiles in that silly girl kind of way when he kisses the top of her head in response.   

    “His. They don’t think he’s independent enough.”   

    “Could it help?”   

    “Joly sure thinks it could.”   

    “Then maybe it’s worth a try.”   

    “That means leaving him alone. I don’t want to leave him alone. He doesn’t like being alone. Never has.”   

    “But have you thought about when he’s released?”   

    “Of course I have.”   

    “I mean when you go back to school and Courfeyrac goes back to work full time. What is he going to do?”   

    “Enjolras?”   

    “Yeah. Can he work?”   

    “The mental capability is there. He’s still just as smart which is one of the reasons Valjean says his temper is so bad. All of that intelligence without the ability to express it.” He sums up with a frustrated shake of his head.    

    She sits up so he can put his coffee on the table before bringing her close to his chest. With his arms around her, it's easier for him to forget the cop's address. She intertwines her fingers with one of his hands and examines the short fingernails. “That sucks.” It’s quiet and bitter and Combeferre only nods in agreement. “What about his sign language? You can have full conversations with him sometimes.”   

    “Sometimes being the key word. It’s rare and it’s difficult to live in a world where few people speak sign language yet alone not speaking it fluently.”   

    “As difficult as aphasia? At least it’s a way to communicate and there are laws protecting those with disabilities.”   

    “Okay so say he can knows sign language. That means he can maybe sufficiently communicate, assuming he's emotionally stable enough. There are still several other factors we’d have to consider. Such as his inability to focus on anything longer than ten minutes, his difficulties reading, his rather volatile temper, and the mood swings. His vision is still blurred, they don’t think it’ll improve anymore, and he’s been complaining about ringing in his ears so there’s whatever that means. After all of that, what job does it leave him?” He ends his rant with the frustrated, discouraged question and it remains in the air long after they fall quiet.    

    Before she responds, she kisses his hand. “But he has you.”   

    “I can’t make him better.”   

    “No but you can make it easier.”   

    “Not if I come home.”  

    “He’d still have you. Just for a few hours less and maybe,” she says a little louder before he can argue, “it’s the quiet push he needs.”  

    “Do you know how hard it's going to be?” It's assumed he means for Enjolras but the question counts himself as well. It's about leaving him for the night where even leaving him right now it's eating at his heart. As if he knows this and wants to just ignore it all together, push himself out of the subject line, he adds, “He's been through so much and accomplished so much already and he still will never be back where he was before. Do you remember how hard it was for him when we were forced in to the restricted visiting hours? And now, they’re taking me and Courfeyrac away?”   

    “Do you remember what it was like just waiting for him to wake up?” Éponine asks suddenly. She twists in his arms so she can see his face. Like she had hoped, he looks away, pained by the memory. When he turns back she asks, “Do you remember when he had that thick neck brace on? When he couldn't stay awake longer than a few minutes? When he barely had enough strength to squeeze your hand? Do you remember what it was like when he couldn't tell you he's okay?”   

    “He still can't sometimes.”   

    “But other times he can.” She counters and he can only shake his head. “Now he'll laugh and tell you to stop mothering him.”   

    “Sometimes.”   

    She nods. “Sometimes. Sometimes he laughs so hard he can't breath and other times he cries for no reason. Right?”   

    “Yeah, I guess.”   

    “It was a miracle he woke up, a miracle he's talking, a miracle he even smiles. With all the shit that he's had to deal with, he's been okay because he has you. Nothing's changed now. The challenges are different but you're still there for him.”   

    “So how can I go home? How can I leave him?”      

    “Because that's what he needs. He has you to recognize it's what he needs and to be strong enough to go through with it despite how hard it’s going to be for both of you.”   

    He leans his head back against the couch, not liking her point but not being able to argue against it. Éponine rests her head on his chest, giving him the time to think. When he speaks, she looks up. “You're right.”   

    She makes a face like she wished she wasn’t. “I'm sorry.”    

    “It's okay. I owe you a night out anyway.” He smiles, then smiles at her. After a long, soft kiss he promises to call later and leaves. Where he agrees he should start giving Enjolras the opportunity to become more independent, he doesn't have to start now. When he walks in to his best friend's room, both Enjolras and Courfeyrac are lying on the bed. The blond is awake, still fighting sleep with a painful amount of energy and Combeferre almost immediately changes his mind. For now, he ignores it and simply crawls on to the bed next to Enjolras. Between his friends, it's only a few minutes before Enjolras finally falls asleep.    

    After a long look at Enjolras' gently sleeping face, Combeferre sighs. It's enough to grab Courfeyrac's attention. “They want us to start leaving him at night.”   

    “Fuck that,” is his first instinct. Combeferre chuckles but after a minute Courfeyrac hesitantly asks, “Why would they want that?”   

    “They don't think he's independent enough.”   

    “Why would that be a factor? He's not going to be alone.”   

    “What if he can't be?”   

    “What do you mean?”   

    “What does he do when you go back to work and I start school again? How is he going to spend his days? Just meandering around the apartment? Sitting there and waiting for us to come home? Being babysat by our friends? What kind of life is that?”   

    Courfeyrac is quiet. His arms tighten around Enjolras sleeping on his chest. He didn't think of that. By the strain in Combeferre's voice, it's still a new realization. “Fuck.”   

    “Yeah.”   

    “Maybe he can go back to work. Surely Lamarque could find something for him.”   

    “That would still require the attention, focus, and independence that he does not have.”   

    “When do we have to leave?”   

    “When we want to. It was a suggestion that implied it's heavily recommended.”   

    “But not right now?”   

    “No.” Combeferre says with a small smile. The only reason they're handling it so calmly is because they've been given the choice. Certainly that was a combination of Valjean's kind suggestion, Joly's knowing insistence, and Larose’s past experienced with the boys.   

    “Good.” Courfeyrac says. He kisses Enjolras' forehead and shifts more comfortably on the bed to settle in for the night. On the other side, Combeferre silently agrees as he presses his forehead against Enjolras' back, focusing on the subtle rise and fall of his steady breathing.    

    In an hour or so a nurse will come by and set up his IV lines and consider a nasal cannula for the night. He has to have the intravenous lines in at night but the oxygen depends on how active he was during the day and the readings on the machines when he finally stops moving. It's a reminder that he's still in the hospital but he's also not alone. Combeferre shifts again. He lifts his head up to see Courfeyrac’s eyes are closed, then leans back against Enjolras. He may be scared and alone but he won't hurt. He won't be in danger. He'd be forced to tell the nurse or doctor that something's wrong, that he wants or needs something the same way he'd need to know how to do if Combeferre is at school and Courfeyrac is at work and all of there friends are busy living the lives Enjolras can only reminisce about. He'd need to know how to call them, how to feed himself, entertain himself, survive by himself no matter how rare it might be when he's released.    

Combeferre sighs, disappointment heavy on his chest because the doctors and Éponine are right. He needs to start going home if Enjolras hopes to go home soon.  
  



	30. October 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween, both present and two years ago.

         A string of curses and rhetorical questions rang out softly as Enjolras stumbled in to the apartment, all flustered and frantic. There were papers falling out of his messenger bag, a scarf hanging out of his backpack, and the three coffees were spilling on to the tray he's desperately trying to keep level. A bag of bribes had already dropped from his hands and he nudged it through the doorway with his boot. Combeferre glanced up from his textbook, the highlighter cap between his teeth and a pen tucked behind his ear. On the armchair, Courfeyrac's quick hands paused in the middle of the paper he's writing. The number of days until his last semester of law school was over was written on his arm in large, black sharpie. He had to alternate arms every week because on Friday the last number was dangerously close to his wrist.    

     “Twenty bucks he's finally figured it out.” Combeferre whispered. He's quieted with a quick kick from Courfeyrac, the irishman worried he'll give it away if there's another excuse for Enjolras' frantic entrance. The possibilities were endless but given the party started in four hours, it was doubtful. Combeferre only chuckled, turning to the blond with an amused smile. “Hey, E. What's going on?”   

     Enjolras looked up to them and grinned. There was a thoughtful look in his blue eyes and Courfeyrac knew right then he owed Combeferre money. Dropping his bags and carefully balancing the coffees, he made his way to the couch. He handed the tray to Combeferre but as soon as he sat down, he jumped back up to grab the bag of food. Combeferre passed Courfeyrac his coffee, then immediately pulled out the double chocolate cookie with chocolate frosting and sprinkles Enjolras knows he loves. Ignoring his own coffee, Enjolras said, “So today is Halloween.”   

     “Damn it.” Courfeyrac cursed as he closed his laptop.   

     Combeferre chuckled. “So it is.”   

     “I don't have a costume for Joly's party,” admitted Enjolras.   

     “You? Not being prepared for a party? How unusual.”   

     “Well Courf, if you're going to be sarcastic, I'm going to take your cookie back.” Enjolras threatened.   

     “You won't because you need my help.”   

     “Can you actually help me?”   

     “Of course I can.” Courfeyrac took the offered cookie from Combeferre. Just in case, he licked a long line across the sugary surface.   

     Enjolras raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Do you really think that would stop me? We've shared enough germs to make Joly put himself in to a hypochondriac coma, Courf. I would have no problem eating that.”   

     When Courfeyrac doubled his efforts, Combeferre narrowed his eyes at his friend. “That's disgusting, Courfeyrac. Stop it or I'm going to throw it away. Enjolras, be nice because we can help.”   

     “Oh thank god.” Enjolras said as he drops dramatically to Combeferre's lap. “I have run out of ideas for the sheet.”   

     “You could be a ghost,” offered Courfeyrac with a mouthful of food.   

     “I was a ghost two years ago.”   

     Combeferre ran his fingers through Enjolras' long hair, trying to determine how much of it could reach a ponytail. “What were you last year then?”   

     “Something roman, right?” Courfeyrac said. “R helped you wrap it like a toga.”   

     “And there are no repeats allowed.” The blond reminded them of Joly's most important rule. It's been repeated so often that Musichetta made a sign for it on their apartment door so it can't be missed when walking in. “I tried to just make that my yearly costume but he threatened to light me on fire if I did.”   

     “I thought he did light you on fire.” Courfeyrac knit his brow as he tried to remember.   

     “He did, didn't he?” Enjolras nodded slowly, glancing to Combeferre for confirmation. “I think that was an accident though. He drank most of the orange jell-o shots before any of us even got there.”   

     “Silly Joly. He loves his halloween.” Combeferre said with a fond smile as he collected almost all of the blond curls. Enjolras gave him a questioning look but didn't ask about it because he's laying his head on his friend's lap and rather enjoys when people play with his hair. It's not his place to question what they do with it.    

     “What am I going to do?” Enjolras asked instead.   

     “We've got you covered.”   

     He had to arch his back to see Courfeyrac. Enjolras smiled softly in awe of his friends. “Really?”   

     “Yep but you're not going to like it.”   

     It's said too casually for Enjolras' comfort. He narrowed his eyes but Courfeyrac only smirked. A look to Combeferre didn't offer him any information. “Why not?”   

     For a few long minutes, neither of them answered and Enjolras was almost too worried to repeat it. Eventually Combeferre said calmly, “Take this as a lesson to make you remember to plan in advance.”   

     Courfeyrac winked, shoved the rest of the cookie in his mouth, then jumped to his feet. Reluctant and fearful, Enjolras stayed in Combeferre's lap until his friend pushed him up and off. In Courfeyrac's bedroom, there were three costumes laid out on the bed. A red, blue, and green one. For a tense moment, Enjolras tilted his head and narrowed his eyes while his other two friends watched him figure it out. It passed with a defiant, “No.”   

     “Yep.” Courfeyrac confirmed.   

     “No. What the fuck?” Enjolras asked. There was no anger in his voice, just an exhausted kind of frustration that a mother would after seeing their child has drawn on the walls. Or the same expression Combeferre had when Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Bahorel got drunk and drew crude pictures all over the kitchen cabinets because _Art, Ferre!_ Courfeyrac had claimed. Or the same expression Joly has when Courfeyrac licks a cookie to claim it only to have it eaten by a friend just for the fun of it. Or when Feuilly had to work at four thirty the next morning but had three stumbling friends to deposit to the right apartments. “What the fuck, Courf? Ferre? Come on guys. This is just ignorant.”   

     “You're wearing it or you're not invited.” Courfeyrac said with a mischievous smirk.   

     “The musketeers defended the monarchy!”    

     “Only occasionally,” offered Combeferre as he pulls on the black boots.    

     “Please? Please, can't we go as three blind mice or something?”   

     “You would rather be a rodent than a musketeer?” Courfeyrac asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Plus we get swords.”   

     A twitch of a smile crossed Enjolras' face despite his best efforts to stay stubborn. “We get swords?”   

     “Of course we get swords. Ferre's worried we're going to fence.”   

     “Well of course we're going to fence.” He said with a look to Combeferre as if it's a ridiculous request of them.

     Combeferre shook his head and rolled his eyes but Courfeyrac beamed. The latter practically bounced on his toes as he asked, “So you're in?”

     “Only because I love you guys and I love Joly and I don't want him to set me on fire this year.”   

     “And because of the swords.” Courfeyrac nodded. The blond shrugged nonchalantly but his grin said enough to agree.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     He finds it strange that he doesn't get odd looks when he walks down the hallway to Enjolras' room. But after counting three zombies, seventeen princesses, a few cats, and a full dinosaur that may or not have been an actual person, Marius guesses his Harry Potter costume isn't as out of place. Hopefully the kids like it. Or at least notice it because the lack of encouragement makes it harder to admit he stayed up nearly all night figuring it out.    

     In the last few weeks, no one has mentioned Halloween. Not until Joly sent out a mass texting telling everyone when and where to bring their age appropriate costumes. Even then, it was nothing more than a casual question and the topic was left to die before it caught any real momentum. Marius thinks it's because everyone feels guilty. He sure as hell does. It doesn't seem fair that they can simply go about their normal lives when their friend is struggling through speech lessons. That he can spend six hours practicing drawing lightening bolts when Enjolras can’t say _lightening bolt_.   

     If they looked back on the pictures years from now, no one would see Musichetta's amazing homemade costume that rivals Broadway outfits or laugh at the picture of Joly drunk and curled up under the fridge to keep everyone from drinking anymore, just the same as he does every year. Or did. They'll only see Enjolras alone in a hospital bed. Going to the small party in the children's ward seems like the best option. Enjolras can come. He's not left out or forgotten, only adjusted to, as Jehan keeps remind Courfeyrac when they don’t think anyone can hear them.

     Marius swings open the door as quietly as he can and immediately catches Courfeyrac's eye. His friend smiles, but puts his finger to his lips before pointing to the bed. Combeferre is lying flat on his stomach, face covered with a few pillows to block out the early winter sun. His soft snores still fill the room. Courfeyrac puts down his work and joins Marius outside. He's stunned how Courfeyrac manages to get nearly the same work load done on top of how much time he spends here with Enjolras and Combeferre. Marius wonders how much he actually sleeps but it's a question for another time. Eventually Enjolras will be home and things will go back to normal and sleep won't be a problem to question for anyone.

     “Is E out on a phone conference?” Marius jokes once the door is closed and they don't have to worry about waking Combeferre up.   

     Courfeyrac chuckles as they walk to the nearest bench. “That would probably be more fun. He's at PT.”   

     “I thought he didn't have anything on Halloween.”   

     “Javert changed his mind.” Courfeyrac says bitterly.   

     “Oh.” Marius says a little sadly, knowing just how disappointed Enjolras must of been. The visitors hours don't count on holidays or Sundays, something they owe Jean Valjean for. “Javert's kind of a dick.”   

     A surprised laugh escapes his friend and Marius beams. “He is, isn't he? And the worse part is he's really fucking good. Enjolras has started writing with his hand and it's rather legible.”   

     “That's awesome. If he just focuses on those kind of things, it won't matter that Javert is a dick then.”   

     “Enjolras doesn't really have control of that kind of focus anymore.” Courfeyrac says with a heavy sense of discouragement. It doesn't sound right coming from him. The sigh that follows shakes Marius even more.   

     “Has Combeferre gone home yet?”   

     “He keeps saying next week. There's a lot of shit we have to get done in the apartment so that should distract him.”   

     Marius still doesn't like the exhausted look on his friend's face. It doesn't look like the kind you can fix with just a good nights sleep. “What's your costume?”   

     “Something Roman. Remember how Grantaire fixed that sheet for Enjolras a couple of years back? E asked him to help again this year. We're both going to do it.” Courfeyrac runs a hand over his face, then sinks back on the bench and smiles at his friend. Taking in the long cape, the round glasses with no lens, the messy hair, Courfeyrac chuckles. He looks strikingly close to what Courfeyrac pictured Harry Potter looked like while reading the books. “You look cute.”   

     “Oh this old thing? It's nothing.”    

     “How long did it take you?”   

     “Hours,” admits Marius with a long sigh. “So many hours. I couldn't get my hair to stay flat.”   

     “Oh poor you.” Courfeyrac laughs, running a hand through his own hair, slightly greasy because he skilled a shower for a nap instead. “What is everyone else going as?”   

     “Bossuet is a black cat, which is awesome.”   

     Laughing loudly, Courfeyrac nods. “That is awesome. I can't believe he hasn't done that before.”   

     “It was Cosette's suggestion. Joly is really excited about it.”   

     “I like her.”   

     After nodding in agreement, Marius narrows his eyes to remember the other costumes that weren't discussed nearly as long as they usually are. A few were still secretive about theirs but Marius thinks it had more to do with lack of ideas than the desired shock factor. “Bahorel is going as a boxer and Feuilly is going as a paperboy.”   

     “A paperboy?”       

     “Yeah but like one from the nineteen twenty's. The suspenders and dirt on his cheek kind of thing.”   

     “Oh. Cool.”   

     “Joly is going to be a zombie after his shift, Musichetta is a viking, and I think Cosette is something from Game of Thrones. Something with a dragon. That's all I know so far.”    

     Courfeyrac nods, his smile growing as he stared at Marius' black loafers that are several sizes too big. Before he can comment on them, his friend is hitting his arm. He jerks his head up and narrows his eyes. “What?”   

     The only answer is Marius pointing in the direction he's staring at. They both watch Joly run down the hall, then turn in to Enjolras' room. Jumping to their feet, Marius trips, but manages to keep up with Courfeyrac and they make it to the room just in time to see Joly waking Combeferre up. He jolts awake, breathing quick and eyes frantic. According to Courfeyrac, Combeferre's started to have nightmares again. They don't seem to be the same as they were a few months ago but they sound just as bad.   

     “Something happened in PT today.” Joly says gently. If Courfeyrac and Marius didn't see him sprinting down the hall, they'd think he was just telling them what time the party starts. “E's okay but you should come down with me. You both should.”   

     They take off, leaving Marius alone in the hospital room. He doesn't like being there without Enjolras. His imagination takes dark turns when there's an empty hospital bed so he sits outside the room with his back against the wall. Eventually Cosette comes to stop by. She sits next to him. As the others join, no one talks much outside of the occasional compliment or  _bless you_ after a sneeze. Otherwise, they sit as best they can in their costumes, which is harder for some, like Éponine who is an elaborate spider, and quietly wait for Enjolras to come back.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Grantaire raised his eyebrow at the trio when they walked in proudly. He gave Enjolras a questioning look but the blond was making a show of how much voice he lacked in this costume choice but was biting back a smile nonetheless. Courfeyrac arched his back, then his eyebrow in his attempts to look as valiant as possible and Combeferre grinned like a small child playing dress up. They both looked like college students at a Halloween party. But Enjolras. Grantaire took a long sip of his drink because Enjolras. Enjolras looked like he belonged in that time period. Enjolras looked like he should fight gallantly for the peasants, standing heroically against Goliath, preaching to bring down a corrupt family of kings. The small smile on his face was different than everything Grantaire has ever sketched of him, something revealing a little bit of pride, of the smallest piece of enjoyment in the cruelty of those passions. He made a point to ease up on the alcohol so he could remember it.   

     “Well you look brave.” Grantaire stated as calmly as he could a few hours later. It took some time but eventually he discreetly managed to be standing next to Enjolras on the edge of the party. Only a few people were nearby and most of their friends were a fair distance away, meaning he had Enjolras to himself for a little. Grantaire was suddenly grateful he slowed his alcohol intake down although he didn't think Enjolras would, or could, notice. It didn't take long to realize the irishman and the frenchman were trying to out drink each other. He had a theory it had to do with a promise to keep from fighting with their swords and it was another outlet for their competitiveness. “I like your hair like that.”   

     Enjolras laughed loudly and Grantaire just wanted to record it so he could keep that sound forever. The blond patted his head awkwardly as he admitted, “I couldn't get it up without missing some of the curls so Combeferre had to help.” A few curls still bounced loose. “He even borrowed Musichetta's hairspray.”   

     “They must have really planned it all out.”   

     “I think they had a bet too.” Enjolras admitted suspiciously.    

     “Who won?”   

     “Ferre, of course.”   

     “Right.” Grantaire chuckled. “That makes sense.”   

     “Who are you?” Enjolras asked as he studied the paint stained skin, the wrinkled clothes, the taped hole over the toe of his boot. It wasn't that far out of what the artist usually looked like. Grantaire turned his head and pointed to his crudely bandaged ear with thick red dripping down his neck. “Holy shit! What happened? Did Joly tape that up, because Joly's really drunk. We should get Ferre to look at it.”   

     “No, no, it's not real.” Grantaire said quickly, holding up his hands and biting back his smile at the frantic concern that filled his chest with warmth. “It's not real, Apollo. It's part of the costume.”   

     “Oh.”   

     He waited for Enjolras to guess but the blond only narrowed his eyes in thought. When enough time passed where it was clear he had no idea, Grantaire supplied, “I'm Van Gogh.”   

     “Oh! Okay. Because he cut off his ear. I get it. Very nice.”   

     “You see, it's funny because I'm a painter who is as poor and successful as he was.”   

     “No you're not.” He knit his brow in disagreement, stunned by the statement.   

     “If you saw my bank account you would know.”   

     “But you've sold more than just one painting. I've bought two. I know Ferre gave his mom one for her birthday.” Enjolras said in defense of the artist's accomplishments. It brought a shy, almost embarrassedly happy smile to Grantaire's face. It didn’t last long though because Courfeyrac snuck up behind the blond before he could reenforce the point and make Grantaire's blush more obvious. A laugh bubbled in Grantaire's chest, grateful that Courfeyrac whacked Enjolras' knees with his sword. It saved him from giggling embarrassingly or confessing something worse and brought a cute squeal from Enjolras. The sudden hit startled him more than hurt and he spilled his drink over a lamp. It gave Grantaire the distraction he needed. “Ow! What the fuck, Courf?”   

     “On guard!” The Irishman shouted, jumping in to the offensive position he's seen in every movie with a sword fight.    

     “You don't want to start this,” warned Enjolras. Grantaire smirked at the way his fingers tightened on his own plastic sword at his hip. He wished he had his camera on him. _It's in Joly's bedroom_ , his brain supplied. As soon as he had a chance, he ran in and grabbed it.    

     Courfeyrac took a step forward to stab at his friend's chest. “Don't threaten things you can't follow through- ow!”   

     Enjolras quickly removed his sword and smacked Courfeyrac's free hand where it rested on his hip. Next to him, the artist snorted because it looked like Enjolras had practiced pulling out his sword dramatically and he could only picture him in front of the bathroom mirror trying all sorts of moves. The promise of this escalating forced Grantaire a few steps away and brought the attention of several partygoers, all but Combeferre who made it a point to ignore the squabble.    

     “I'm sorry. What were you saying?” Enjolras asked. Courfeyrac immediately retaliated, backing Enjolras up in to the end table with wild swings of his fake weapon. The lamp was just saved by Grantaire and it was the last time the duelers paused for a solid half hour, except for the time Enjolras accidentally smacked Bossuet in the face as the man was passing through the apartment and he apologized profusely. Then Courfeyrac claimed he’d win Bossuet’s honor back. There were a few understood rules and boundaries, no head shots and the waist was generally avoided. As the _battle_ got more heated, Enjolras naturally switched over to yelling in French and Courfeyrac's accent grew impossible to understand as both their words slurred from the shots Joly continued to pass them. Grantaire followed them around, shouting encouragements and tips for Enjolras while Musichetta recorded it. They tried to avoid most breakable things and thankfully, after living with Bossuet, the apartment was void of anything too expensive or emotionally priceless to replace.    

     At one junction of the fight, Enjolras shoved Courfeyrac on to the couch and backed up quickly. He shouted across the apartment, “Hey Ferre!”   

     “Oh you little tattle tale,” hissed Courfeyrac from the couch. He ducked low in hopes of staying out of view of Combeferre's disapproving stare.

     “What?” Combeferre asked. He'd been mostly ignoring his two roommates, hiding out on the opposite side of the apartment. It was inevitable that something would break or someone would bleed. He hadn't drank any more since it started in case one of them was impaled or fell in to the window or something extreme and needed a ride to the hospital. It wouldn't be the first time.    

     “Where's your sword?” Enjolras asked in a quick whisper. Because it was in French, the others looked to Jehan for a translation.   

     Courfeyrac jumped off the couch and shoved Enjolras. “Where is it, Ferre?”   

     The man shook his head but the other two both spotted it at the same time, hidden above the fridge. Courfeyrac went to jump over the couch but Enjolras pushed him from behind and he stumbled in to the back cushions. After pulling himself out of the thick pillows, he followed his friend over the couch. Instead of landing on his feet, he aimed for Enjolras. The tackle brought them both to the ground with a mixture of gasps and laughter. They wrestled for several minutes before Combeferre called an end to the game. Courfeyrac had pinned Enjolras by sitting on his chest and only then did they all notice Courfeyrac's nose bleeding from where his face smacked against the back of Enjolras' head and Enjolras split lip from where he hit the floor. Neither of the duelers seemed to realized it.   

     “There's blood, that's it.” Combeferre announced.    

     “But I'm winning!” The Irishman whined, pouting to Combeferre but not making any effort to get off his friend.   

     “You're getting blood on me, Courf.” Enjolras said slowly as if just realizing it.    

     In response, Courfeyrac shook his head. It caused a few drops to splatter on the floor. Everyone glanced over to where Joly gagged. Musichetta already had the bleach out, reassuring him gently and smiling like this all was the most entertaining thing. “I'm not bleeding. You are.”   

     “There's blood right there,” pointed Enjolras.    

     “No. There's blood here.” Courfeyrac reached down and poked Enjolras' cut lip.    

     “Ow!”   

     “See. Told you so.” Courfeyrac grinned proudly until Enjolras flicked him on the nose and he flinched painfully.    

     “See, told you so.” The blond mimicked childishly.    

     “Up you get. Both of you.” Combeferre demanded as he pulled Courfeyrac to his feet, then helped Enjolras up and led them both to the bathroom. The crowd booed until Combeferre closed the bathroom door and the duel was forgotten in exchange for Joly’s long drunken rant on sexually transmitted diseases. Both Feuilly and Bahorel started to _experience a few symptoms_ , stirring a panic in Joly. Instead of telling them to cut it out, Musichetta encouraged a full body exam which sparked another kind of duel.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     It’s a rare, almost invigorating kind of feeling, something stirring the hate deep inside his chest. He never thought anyone could bring it back up unless they threatened his daughter. This isn’t the first time he’s had issues with shared patients but this is the first time Jean Valjean would say he’s dangerously emotionally attached to the patient. If he could, he would take Enjolras home with him. He could stay in the guest room and Valjean could help him adjust to this new life he’s so terrified of. All of his friends would come over and they’d have Sunday dinners together, squeezed around his rather small table. That urge to protect him is curling his fingers, inching his feet forward, measuring his breath so he doesn’t get winded in the fight and he hasn’t planned his breathing for a fight since he adopted Cosette.    

     Fighting Javert would be unproductive. It would probably force Larose to take him off of Enjolras’ case and that would be worse because Valjean has a feeling that Javert won’t be. Still, he wants to make sure Javert’s nose is really broken. Actually, really, completely always going to be a little crooked broken so when he catches his reflection he thinks of Enjolras. The kid got a good piece of it but Valjean is a thorough man. If they were outside the hospital, he probably would have already lost control.    

     Instead, he shouts, “He’s different! You can’t treat him the same way the book tells you to.” To avoid punching his colleague in the face, Valjean turns to Larose. “I told you this would happen.”   

     “And here is the insightful Jean Valjean, making exceptions based on preferences yet again.” He gives Valjean a disappointed look as if he’s the one who worked up his patient to the point of punching him.    

     “It’s not based on preference but the individual.” One black mark on his record wouldn’t be the worst thing, Valjean tells himself. He could get away with it but he won’t do that to Enjolras. “I told you this would happen.” He tells Larose again because in the end, Larose makes the decisions. “I told you Javert would push him to something like this.”   

     “You’re justifying the boy’s violence by saying it’s something I did wrong?”   

     “Yes. You can’t see past what you've been taught is the right way to adapt your tactics to the specific patients needs and Enjolras' specific needs are different than a nice complying patient. He's not easy. He's temper is extreme, as your nose can clearly tell. It's necessary to adjust.”   

     “The boy is a criminal.” Javert says with a wave of his hand. “It shouldn't surprise us that he's violent.”   

     “He only reacted violently because you pushed him.”   

     “How can you say this is my fault?” The man finally stands up to face Valjean.   

     “Because you had him for less than a month and he broke your nose. How long have I been working with him? Do you see me wearing a bandage? He's never made an attempt to raise his voice at me yet alone strike me.” Valjean says in a threateningly calm voice before softening it to bring sympathy for Enjolras. “He's a child. He's scared and angry and trying to adjust to something as horribly life altering as brain damage.”   

     “That does not justify violence.”   

     Valjean’s jaw clenches. He takes a step towards the man, tilting his head to ask, “What did you say to him, Javert? What did you do that made him believe the only choice he had was to punch you?”   

     “I did nothing to him that I haven't done with other patients.”   

     “Exactly! You can't approach Enjolras like that. You can't approach anyone like that! How you haven’t been punched before is beyond me.”   

     It’s Javert’s turn to speak evenly, laying out his strongest card. “Enjolras can now write his name. He can throw a punch strong enough to break my nose. I bet he could even do a push up. Can Enjolras articulate why he was so angry? Can he come in here and explain what happened, tell the whole story?”   

     The man narrows his eyes. “You know he can’t.”   

     To Larose, Javert says, “Then maybe I’m not the one we need to be talking about.”   

     “You can’t be serious.” Valjean says slowly, eyes wide in disbelief but jaw clenched in anger. He looks to Larose only to see the doctor searching his face for a rebuttal. “You can’t be serious! How can you even try to compare brain damage to a broken arm?”   

     “A shattered arm with nerve damage,” corrects Javert.   

     “Brain damage from two separate skull fractures!” He shouts then cringes because he can't believe the level Javert brings him down to. Debating over which life altering injury is worse. That's just like Javert, there is only black and white. Statistics and x-rays. The individual doesn't matter, only the injury.   

     “That’s enough!” Larose demands, standing up to glare at both of them. “Javert go get your nose set before it stays like that.”   

     “Larose, the boy is a criminal. He should be in a secure room until he's released in to custody.”   

     “He's in the hospital because of police brutality.” Valjean snaps. “If he's going to court it's to decide how much money he receives from the state.”   

     Before Javert shouts back, taking an aggressive step towards Valjean, Larose commands him to leave. He mumbles something on the way out, slamming the door behind him because if there’s one thing Javert respects it’s orders. Larose sinks to his chair and Valjean sits on the edge of his chair. “He’s not violent.” He defends. “His temper is a bit turbulent at times but he’s a good kid. He only wants to be good, to do well.”   

     Larose sighs. “The boy broke Javert’s nose.”   

     “Javert deserved to get punched in the face.”   

     “We can not condone that behavior, Valjean.” Larose says. Valjean likes that he didn't disagree with him. “He’s broken things and thrown rather frightening fits before. He's escalating.”   

     “You know as well as I do that his behavior, outside of redoing Javert’s face, is normal for brain injuries.” Valjean scoots up in his seat as if that would convince the doctor.   

     “He's a few weeks from being released. If it happens again, we're going to have to reconsider how we label him.” Larose warns.   

     Flinching back as if he’s just been hit, Valjean’s face pinches in offense. “Because he punched the strictest hard ass in the hospital you'd put on his permanent file that he's emotionally unstable? You'd put that he's a potential threat? That's wrong and you know it.”   

     “Valjean, I like the kid. And I know you're getting attached to him.” He holds up his hand against any comments. “In a profession such as yours it's a requirement and I'm happy for it. However, one more event like this and we will have to take it in to consideration.”   

     “Then give him another therapist. If you give him Javert, he'll push harder to prove a point and it will only end up in blood and tears. Again.”   

     “I'll see what I can do,” is all Larose says. “Now go talk to Enjolras and see if he can prove Javert wrong.”

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Combeferre sat Enjolras on the toilet seat and Courfeyrac on the edge of the tub before digging under the seat for the Great Big First Aid Kit Joly always keeps. It wasn’t long before Courfeyrac and Enjolras started to argue over who won. “You guys are stumbling drunk, bleeding from your faces, and locked in a bathroom during a party. I don't think either of you won.”   

     “I think that means you won.” Courfeyrac stated with a wink.   

     “Because I get to clean you idiots up?”   

     “Because you're locked in here with us.” Enjolras clarified. Combeferre rolled his eyes but laughed.   

     Courfeyrac dropped his voice, eyeing Combeferre seductively. The look lost it's effectiveness as he rocked a little on the edge of the tub. “We were fighting for your hand, our fair Ferre.”    

     “The winner gets to bed you, sire.” The blond added. He looked like he would tumble off the seat if he wasn't holding on to the edge of the sink.   

     “I love you both dearly but I’ll sleep by myself tonight.” Combeferre stopped looking through the first aid kit to glance up to his friends. Enjolras was pretending to pout but Courfeyrac smirked at him, head tilted to the side in the annoying kind of way where he knows something you don't want him to know. “What?”   

     “What?” Enjolras repeated, his slow gaze flickering between his friends.   

     “What is that look, Courf?” He asked after catching Enjolras' knee before he fell off the seat because he turned his head too quickly. Looking at Courfeyrac, Combeferre kept his hand on his friend's knee.    

     “You may sleep alone tonight but you don't want to, do you?”    

     A bright blush rose up Combeferre's cheeks and the other two boys busted out laughing. Enjolras leaned closer to his face to say, “I've never seen you blush before. Are you sick?”   

     “Love sick maybe.” Courfeyrac sang.   

     “Oh. This is about Éponine,” nodded Enjolras as he caught up.   

     “Shut up.” He ducked his head and that only made it worse. “It's not like that.”   

     “Like what? Like you don't want to kiss her?” The blond asked. He was still leaning close to Combeferre and actually looked concern. Enjolras gracelessly pats his friend's head to give some comfort but he still bit back a smile.    

     “Well, yeah I do but I want to talk to her, too.” He admitted quietly.   

     “Is that an euphemism?”   

     “No, E.” Courfeyrac said, grinning madly. “He's just a romantic.”   

     Enjolras looked from Courfeyrac to Combeferre, then dropped his head after studying his face. With a decided head nod, he mumbled, “I'd talk to Grantaire.”    

     “What?” Courfeyrac asked.   

     “What?” Combeferre repeated, a smile growing as he glanced to Courfeyrac.   

     “What?”   

     Combeferre shifted in front of his friend. “What did you just say, E?”   

     “I said what because that's what you said.”   

     “No before that.”   

     “Before what?”   

     “Yes.”   

     “What?” Enjolras tilted his head and Combeferre nodded. He patted his friend's cheek and smiled, leaving the conversation for when Enjolras was sober enough to understand the question and respond appropriately. On the bathtub, Courfeyrac jerked forward to save himself from falling backwards.   

     “Be careful there.” Combeferre said, noting just how drunk Courfeyrac and Enjolras were with an amused head shake. He should have seen this coming. He dropped his gaze to search for the Neosporin for Enjolras' lip. Outside of that, all he really could do was get the bleeding to stop and already it was sluggish.    

     Enjolras licked his lip, then looked to Courfeyrac. “You're bleeding more than me.”   

     “So?” Courfeyrac asked with a hiccup.   

     “So, that means I won.”   

     “I had you pinned.”   

     “So?”   

     “So, that means I won.” Courfeyrac stated. Combeferre rolled his eyes.   

     “You only had me pinned because I stopped. You were bleeding.” He shrugged. “I was concerned.”   

     Courfeyrac leaned over and shoved Enjolras. Their competitiveness kept it from being playful but it was far from malicious. It was more a lack of having a good response quick enough. “You didn't even know I was bleeding until Combeferre stopped us.”   

     “Of course I did.” Enjolras said, pushing his friend back. “That's why I let you pin me.”   

     “Bullshit.”   

     “Boys,” warned Combeferre. Right as he sat up to disinfect the cut on Enjolras' lip, the blond shoved his friend, apparently too drunk for a proper response to Courfeyrac's equally inarticulate response. The sudden unbalance sent Courfeyrac tumbling backwards and because he grabbed Enjolras' wrist to keep him upright, they both fell in to the tub. Sighing, Combeferre gripped Enjolras' jaw and roughly cleaned the cut, then left the two laughing idiots there to find Éponine. He's never talked to her as much as he had tonight and the prospect of talking to her more filled his chest. When he checked on his roommates a few hours later, they were both asleep where he left them in the bathtub. They looked awkwardly snuggled together with a leg or arm thrown over the edge because the tub wasn’t designed to sleep two six foot men. After picking up some of the fallen soap bottles and covering them with a blanket, he walked Éponine home.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Combeferre takes in the scattered mess of the room, his best friend curled up in the corner. His knees are pulled up close against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them to keep himself as small as possible. If Combeferre stares long enough, he can see Enjolras’ hands are trembling just the slightest. There are tears still trailing down his cheeks, tape on his knuckles. The blankets have been kicked off the bed and there’s a pillow under the desk. A broken cup sits shattered in the corner opposite of Enjolras, water dripping down the wall. Enjolras looks up when he walks in but quickly drops eye contact. Dryly, Combeferre says, “I heard PT was fun today.”   

     _Sorry_ , Enjolras informs his friend bitterly with a quick rotation of his hand. He avoids looking him in the eye as Combeferre sits next to him against the wall.   

     “You said sorry?” He asks because Enjolras has no reason to apologize to him. Still staring at his lap, Enjolras nods. His hands are suddenly far more interesting but then he sees the cut from Javert's face and he looks away towards the white tiles under Combeferre’s shoes. Without looking up, he reaches for Combeferre’s hand. Enjolras chews on his bottom lip. He misses the twitch of Combeferre’s smirk. It’s not an amused smile. “Well, I can’t imagine Larose was surprised.” Combeferre says with a sigh, squeezing Enjolras’ hand. “This was building up.”   

     The only response he gets is an attempt at an unenthusiastic shrug. Enjolras pretends to see something on the wall, following it up to the corner of the white ceiling, all to avoid whatever look Combeferre is giving him this time. He’s tired and heartbroken, angry and completely crushed under the weight of his actions, under the crunching of his doctor's nose. His doctor's nose that he broke because he was angry. Tears threaten to fall heavier but he doesn’t dare wipe them away. Unfortunately, a sniffle betrays his brave face and he squeezes Combeferre’s hand because his own are still shaking.    

     He risks a glimpse to Combeferre. It’s a bad idea. Immediately he looks away but his breath catches in his throat, his bottom lip trembles, and his brow knits as he tries to fend off the tears. He squeezes his eyes tightly, ducking his chin towards his chest. When Combeferre’s arms wrap around his shoulders, he falls in to the embrace, finally sobbing.   

     This is better than what Combeferre dreams about. This is better than Enjolras falling asleep at home and never waking up, no matter how long Combeferre screams and pleads. This is better than the slow trickle of blood running down from Enjolras’ ear as he eats at the breakfast island as he smiles at Combeferre or Enjolras tripping down the stairs and the echoing crack of bone rings in the large hallway where Combeferre stands, watching it all, completely useless. Sometimes they’re in the crowd, the sun flashes off the baton, and Combeferre can’t warn him in time but more often than not, it’s at home. It’s where Enjolras is supposed to be safe.    

     When Joly explained what happened, Combeferre was relieved. Enjolras isn’t hurt. Not really. He’s scared and angry, frightened about the repercussions and ashamed of losing control. There are a few cuts on his hand, but this is an ideal problem to Combeferre. All of that can be fixed, can be comforted. Combeferre will smile at these problems and pray for them each night before another nightmare wakes him up screaming. As they get worse, Combeferre is almost a little grateful he’s being forced to go home. It means he won’t wake Enjolras up at night any more, he won’t scare Courfeyrac in to avoiding sleep any longer. In that sense, it’ll be worth leaving Enjolras despite how hard it will be.   

     He tightens his hug around his friend, kissing the top of the blond curls. The weight is pressing Combeferre painfully against the wall, the bottom of the window digging in to his shoulder, but he doesn’t think twice about it because the crying slows. His calm reassurances slow but don’t stop when the door opens. Enjolras doesn’t look up, only moves further in to Combeferre’s hold, as if hiding or asking for protection. Valjean waits for Combeferre to nod before walking in. A thoughtful flash passes the older man’s face, as if reconsidering something and accepting another. It worries Combeferre until the man smiles kindly and sits on the floor in front of them.   

     “I’ve always wanted to hit Javert a little.” He admits quietly. “I’m a bit jealous.”   

     Combeferre snorts out a surprised laugh. To the man, he nods his understanding. It means this event will pass. It means Enjolras isn’t in trouble. Upstairs, their friends wait patiently. They won't go to the children's ward without Enjolras. No one says it but they all think, _next year. Next year we’ll have a huge party_. Because next year Enjolras will be there with them and everything will be easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments!! They absolutely make my day, week even!


	31. November 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean changes up their lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing comments!!!

         Valjean purses his lips as he watches the little white squares settle across the floor. Two small squares land on the empty chair, their matching words on his lap. One with a refrigerator sits on the top of Enjolras’ foot. Another made it all the way to the nightstand. Valjean thinks that one is a shower. His patient has his face hidden in his hands, elbows resting on the table, the table without a single white square on it anymore. Sitting across from him, Valjean intertwines his fingers and taps his thumbs together in a steady rhythm. He leaves the squares on his lap and fights back his own frustration because he’s not mad at Enjolras. Not really. It’s more of a heavy sense of disappointment. A confirmation of a growing dread because he knew this was going to happen.

     Suddenly seeing the square on his foot, Enjolras shakes his leg. It gets rid of the offending paper but he also manages to kick his toe on the table. He stutters out half of an angry, breathy curse then returns to hiding his head in his hands.    

     There’s a different approach and Valjean berates himself for not trying it. It’s both foolish and hopeful. Optimistic in both his attempt to prove Javert wrong and his hopes that one day things will just click for the kid. He knows better, deep down he doesn’t want it to be true, but he knows. Enjolras isn’t quite the same as his other patients or any he’s ever had before. He’s the hardest working patient with the slowest progress. He’s the most endearing with the sharpest temper. He’s either charmingly over-confident or detrimentally self-doubting.    

     All the tactics and tricks and little words games Valjean was taught to help teach his patients hasn’t seemed to help Enjolras at all. There’s a professional part of Valjean who knows what little Enjolras has picked up, what little he’s capable of is because of his incredible determination and not any of Valjean’s doing. In fact, Combeferre has probably done more to help him than Valjean has. There are days where Enjolras refuses to talk with Valjean but he’ll have full conversations with Combeferre. Having that relationship is wonderful. It has and will be incredibly valuable in the future but for every day Enjolras doesn’t participate, he’s loses ground.    

     There’s not much Valjean can do to push him forward on those days. How can he push Enjolras when it feels like he’s forcing a child in to a foreign language, when Enjolras is already clutching to the few truths of reality he can find? Why push him when Valjean knows it will end poorly? How can he ask Enjolras to try when he knows the anger and confusion will bubble together, ending either in tears or incoherent screams? By Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s decision, based on Valjean’s recommendation, they’ve been focusing on fixing what’s broken. Repairing the damage, aiming to give him back what he’s lost. But on days like that, Valjean fears there isn’t enough to build on.    

     Jean Valjean knows it’s not true. He knows, as Combeferre has from day one, that there is an incredible amount of fight left. When Enjolras knows it, Valjean feels as if he’s working with a completely different patient. On the days where he’s dealing with a clever young man struggling with language issues, where his eyes are sharp and his laugh is easy, Valjean is encouraged by the possibilities. The boy’s ability to grow past this tragedy seems as simple as a few flashcards. There’s still frustration, there’s always a level of frustration with every word he speaks, but Enjolras is fueled by it.    

     Enjolras’ success is solely connected to his emotional state. Happy, well-rested Enjolras faces each challenge with the courage he’s certainly faced police barriers. Charisma laced in every smile wins the hearts of strangers. The smirk full of wit, the confident ease of owning his newfound disabilities allows his day to move forward effortlessly, joyously even. On those days, Courfeyrac’s step is a little lighter, his face void of any of the exhaustion he’s constantly fighting. Combeferre is closer to tears in his happiness, in his relief. His friends stay longer in the hospital, venture to talk about this and that and anything that flows naturally because if Enjolras can’t understand he’ll simply ask. They’ll slow down and it’s easy. Or he’ll sit there and smile happily at his friends surrounding him, focusing on their voices, not their words.    

     If he’s confused, if he’s tired, distracted or upset, he’d rather hide from everyone and everything until he has a grasp of his surroundings. It can be days before he has the strength to figure it out. Then he only wants Combeferre or Courfeyrac and often doesn’t understand why he has to get an MRI scan and they can’t be there. Or sit through an hour of speech lessons alone. Or be pushed through physical therapy by a new therapist every few days because no one seems to know how to predict what to expect from him. If they force him past what he’s capable of, it ends in confused tears and trembling hands but if they underestimate him, it ends with annoyed protests. He doesn’t understand why he now sits alone at nights with only the flashing lights to keep him company and the shadowed pieces of his friends around his room. The dark photos and glittered posters and the many, many small paper cranes trick him in to believing Combeferre simply went out to get some coffee.    

     Those days Valjean keeps the lessons short if he goes through with them at all. As hard as those days are, they’re easier than the confused hours when Enjolras battles with himself. When he sits there and knows what he wants, what he wants to say or do but his mind doesn’t catch up fast enough. When he fights through the exhaustion, through the anger, through the fear of reality. Those days flip so quickly, Valjean often doesn’t see it coming. Such as today, when the delight of having Combeferre stay the night before switched to a physical outburst because he couldn’t remember the word _stove_. The uncertainty sits heavy on the chest of Enjolras and frightful on Valjean’s mind.    

     There are different tactics to try. It takes an entirely different approach and Valjean isn’t sure why he keeps avoiding it. In the quiet room, Valjean asks casually, “How did you meet Ferre, Enjolras?”   

     The blond lifts his head out of his hands slowly, cautiously almost. There are tears in his eyes but none fall. Still Valjean chides himself for not simply doing this first. He can’t believe Javert has affected him so deeply that he’s pushing the boy to tears. In sloppy signs, Enjolras asks him to repeat the question. If his signing is messy, Valjean will be lucky to get him speaking at all.   

     “You know the rules. No signing during our lessons. Use your words.” Valjean reminds gently. The boy makes a frustrated noise, then returns to hiding. This time with his head resting on the table and his arms wrapped around himself protectively. Valjean waits a minute, then another before challenging the their relationship. He knows Enjolras likes him. If he didn’t, Valjean wouldn’t still be his speech pathologist. The risk may be worth it, but only if it works. Firmly, Valjean commands, “Get up, Enjolras. We aren’t done.”    

     When the blond makes no sign of obeying, Valjean reaches out and takes Enjolras’ hand in his own. He squeezes until he has the boy looking up at him over his arm brace. “You aren’t allowed to give up.”   

     Enjolras blinks at him for a long minute before his eyes flicker down to his lap. Uncertainty settles in Valjean’s stare, at whether or not pushing Enjolras even more is the right move. He’s never doubted himself with a patient as much as he has with Enjolras. But when Enjolras straightens in his seat with simple and thoughtful movements, Valjean smiles. His blue eyes study the papers scattered around him. Only once Enjolras is sitting all the way up in the chair does he finally looks to Valjean. “Sorry.”   

     “About what?” Valjean asks and Enjolras waves a hand around at the papers. “I don’t care about that.”   

     He shrugs and repeats himself anyway. “Sorry.”   

     “How did you meet Ferre?” Valjean asks again, leaning back in his seat to hopefully ease the lesson into something of a normal conversation. With his friends, Enjolras says more, speaks more fluidly, more naturally, but when marks are being recorded in a medical file, he gets too nervous. Panic rises easily, frustration and anger following. Maybe Valjean can get him to forget about the file.    

     For a moment, Enjolras looks confused. When he sighs and mimics Valjean’s more relaxed posture, it’s clear he is baffled by the sudden shift of topic as opposed to the context of the question itself. Eventually he composes himself enough to say, “School.”   

     His voice is still strained, thought heavy in each word but he’s talking and that’s all Valjean needs to work with. The accent has soften over the last few weeks, each day he grows clearer. The doctor nods, smiling. “What year?”   

     For a few seconds, Enjolras narrows his eyes at the man, trying to figure out what he’s doing before simply taking a deep breath and rolling with it. That’s a skill in itself that Valjean has watched him struggle to grasp. If he didn’t question so many things, he wouldn’t panic as often or get as angry when he doesn’t understand them. Although, for Valjean it’s easy to say he should just let it go. Valjean doesn’t work nearly as hard as Enjolras and he will never miss anything close to what the blond misses. “One.”   

     “First?”     

     “First.” He repeats with a nod.   

     “How did you meet? I’m sure there is a great story there.”   

     Enjolras nods again. “Story. Don’t remember but story.”   

     “You don’t remember the story?”   

     “Don’t remember the story,” Enjolras repeats on accident, shaking his head. He shifts forward in his seat, becoming more actively involved in the conversation and Valjean doesn’t try to keep his smile from growing. There’s a quick flinch of pain that he catches but lets slide because Enjolras is struggling for words but he’s trying despite his strong mishaps. Failing to remember the word  _stove_ sent a dozen notecards flying but talking about this friends makes him smile, excited to speak through the difficulties that have no right owning a twenty-four year old. “Don’t remember but know story.”   

     “There is no story?”   

     “No. Know.” He points to his temple with a finger. “Know story. Word?”   

     “Know. You’re right. You know the story but don’t remember it?”   

     “Yes. Happening.”   

     Valjean nods and clarifies, “You know the story but don’t remember it happening.”   

     “Yes,” smiles Enjolras. It’s a proud smile. Valjean looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to repeat it. After a sigh, Enjolras sharpens his gaze in concentration and tries. The blue eyes are narrow against the daunting task but not fearful. Challenging and it’s not the first time in Valjean sees exactly why corporations are afraid of the kid. “Know the story.”   

     “Who?” Valjean interrupts softly. “Who’s the subject?”   

     “Me. I.” He corrects quickly. When the doctor nods, he smiles and continues. “I know the story.”   

     “But?”   

     “But,” he scrunches his face before he recalls the next part. “Don't remember.”   

     “It happening.”   

     “It happening.”   

     “The whole sentence, Enjolras.”   

     The fingers on his left hand fidget anxiously as he focuses. “I know story but remember happening. Don't. Don’t remember happening.”   

     “Good, Enjolras.” The doctor praises, grinning widely. “That's very good.”   

     “Missed words.”    

     “That's okay. What do I always tell you?”   

     He sits up in his seat to recite the often heard sentence. As he says it, he nods as sagely as he can manage with the grin growing. “There are a lot of words, Enjolras.”   

     Valjean chuckles at the impression. “Right. So if you miss one or forget another, try something else.”   

     “A lot of work.” Enjolras says with a discouraged sigh, looking down at the table. “Shouldn't be hard.”   

     “It’ll get easier,” reminds Valjean. “It may not seem like it but everyday you learn more.”   

     “Used to be normal.”   

     “Do I have to remind you that normal is a relative term?”   

     “Not wrong.” Enjolras snaps his head up with an angry light in his eyes.    

     “Me or you?”   

     “Me.” Leaning in, he taps his forehead right above the scar. Bitterly, he snarls, “Cracked.”   

     Valjean’s eyes widen in horror before narrowing in anger. “Where did you hear that?”    

     The boy doesn't cower but he doesn't answer either. The slightest hint of apprehension shows in the way he studies Valjean as he tries to predict his next move. Jean Valjean shifts up in his seat, leaning closer to the boy. Enjolras swallows nervously, leaning back. He finally drops his gaze, then looks out the window to avoid the doctor. Even with the bare tree branches filling his vision, he can feel Valjean’s intense stare.   

     “Enjolras.” He calls in between his measured breaths, trying to calm his rising anger. There are only a few words Enjolras knows how to say and what they mean without hearing them.  _Cracked_ is not one of them. “Enjolras, answer me. Where did you hear that?”   

     Shrugging, Enjolras doesn’t answer. He chews on his cheek in his growing anxiety. He shouldn’t have said that, although he’s not quite sure why. It’s not a lie. It wasn’t rude to the doctor. Knowing Combeferre wouldn’t like it either though, Enjolras knows he should have just stayed quiet. For as little as he can say, he has a habit of saying the wrong things. After Valjean demands to know again, his hands start to shake but doesn’t turn away from the window. Quietly he says, “Nurse.”   

     “A nurse?” Valjean’s voice raises in shock. A nurse should never say something like that to a patient. No one should ever say something like that to anyone. Especially to Enjolras. Valjean’s chest aches at the thought that anyone would speak down to the boy like that. Telling him he’s cracked, Valjean clenches his hands in to fists. He hears the words as a low joke, laughing at Enjolras the way someone would make faces at a blind person, assuming they're none the wiser because they can’t see you sticking out your tongue or understand the wordy insult. “Enjolras, which nurse told you that?”   

     “No.” Realizing his mistake, he quickly shakes his head. Looking back to the doctor, he says, “No. Nurse. Like nurse. Small nurse.”     

     “An orderly?” Valjean guesses.   

     “Yes. Man.” Enjolras concedes, then shrugs as he softly adds, “Like to talk. Talk a lot.”    

     The blond shakes his head, as if pushing away the echoing words and accepting the truth of them. Valjean’s breath hitches in his anger. At the vulnerability on his young patient’s face, the disheartening way he sighs in defeat, the anger grows fiercer. Forcing his voice softer, he asks, “Who?” He asks again when Enjolras doesn’t answer. “Enjolras, who said that to you?”   

     “Why?” Enjolras suddenly leans towards him, eyes sharp. There are tears lingering dangerously close to falling. “Why? Not wrong.”   

     “Yes, they are wrong. You are not cracked.” He spits out the word despite his attempts to stay calm. Enjolras scoffs out a laugh, turning to look out the window as he shakes his head again. His jaw is clenched tightly but his bottom lip still trembles with emotion. Valjean reaches out and grabs Enjolras’ wrist, demanding him to look up. “You are not cracked, broken, or damaged. You are not defined by this injury.”   

     He considers ending the lesson. Enjolras looks distraught, torn between throwing something or breaking down and crying. If the lesson ends now, Combeferre will come in and collect him in his arms. He’ll be comforted, quietly reassured, but the doubt is so vivid in those blue eyes that Valjean can’t allow himself to give Enjolras that out. The doctor is going to force Enjolras to believe his words, to believe his own.   

     “What is it, Enjolras? What’s the story of how you met Combeferre?” Valjean asks quickly, trying to force his focus back to the one thing that always makes him smile. “Come on. I want to hear it.”   

     A sniffle escapes and Enjolras wipes his hand across his face. Valjean catches the boy wince, then drop his hand to his lap. It’s his right arm, his broken, damaged, cracked arm that he’s favoring but Enjolras sits up in his seat so Valjean ignores it. He sniffles again, then asks quietly, “Story?”   

     “Yes. What’s the story?”   

     “Big kids.” Enjolras starts slowly. He takes several breaths, most likely to both keep himself calm and to find his words. Valjean patiently waits, impressed that he’s trying at all. This should have been his first tactic. “Mean. Word?”   

     “I need more than that.”   

     Enjolras rolls his eyes and sighs as he glances back out the window. After several long beats, he turns back to Valjean. “Big kids.” He says again. “Mean. Hit. Hit kids. Other kids. Mean, doc. Word?”   

     “Bully?” Valjean tries.   

     “Bully. Bullies.” He points to his chest and tries, “Hit. Not anymore. In trouble. Me in trouble.”   

     “You were a bully?”   

     “Yes. No. Hit bully.”   

     “You hit a bully?”   

     “Yes. Bullies.”   

     “So I hit bullies,” supplies the doctor.   

     “I hit bullies.” Enjolras repeats as he stares at the table.     

     “Well I can see that,” laughs Valjean.    

     A smirk twitches at a corner of Enjolras’ mouth. “Teachers not help. Not happy when I hit kids. Ferre helped. Ferre. Word? Time and time and time.”   

     “Always?”   

     “Yes. Thank you.” He opens his mouth to continue but the word dies on his tongue. After glancing hopefully to Valjean, the doctor repeats the word. “Always. Yes. Always. Ferre always help. Ferre always there. Not happy when I hit but there. With me. For me. Brother,” he adds with an easy shrug and then Enjolras, for the first time, starts to speak to Valjean without being prompted. “Courf, too. Always there and brother.”  

     “Did you meet him the same year?”   

     Enjolras shakes his head. “Here.”   

     “Here?”   

     A long moment passes before Enjolras points around himself, watching Valjean. “Here.”  

     “At the hospital?”   

     “No.” He shakes his head, then rubs his eyes with his hand in frustration. There’s another grimace and he drops his right hand to use his other instead. “Not there, here.” After the same wave of his hand around himself, he asks, “Word?”   

     “Try something else.” Valjean suggests kindly.   

     “Here. Courf here. With Ferre and me. Courf, Courf not there. Here.” He bites his bottom lip. The struggle is starting to catch up to him. If he doesn’t find the right way to explain it, he may lose his temper and if he does, it’ll be the anger of the entire lesson. It’ll be bad and if his hand is hurting, it could make it all the worse. Valjean shifts in his seat, smiling kindly, patiently despite his growing apprehension. “School here. School with Ferre. Then with Courf.” He looks up to Valjean desperately. “Not Lyon.”   

     “Lyon? Oh, France?”   

     “Not Lyon. Here.”   

     “Here in America?” Valjean figures out and Enjolras beams. “Not France.”   

     “Yes! Not France. Here. America.”   

     “Okay, so you met Courfeyrac here in America with Ferre?” asks Valjean. In his seat, Enjolras sits up a little straighter, nodding enthusiastically. “When?”   

     “Six.”   

     “Sixth?”   

     “Sixth. Yes, here. America. Courf.” He points to himself, this time more animated and eager to continue speaking. “I hit kid. Courf hit me.” Enjolras laughs at the memory, then looks up, searching for his next words. He licks his bottom lip in thought. “Courf hit me here,” says Enjolras, running a thumb along his jawline.    

     “Why would he hit you?” The older man asks, grateful that Enjolras is still searching for his words and is distracted from the notes Valjean jolts down in his files. He should have changed his tactics weeks ago. The fact that Enjolras can get over the  _cracked_ conversation as quickly as he has speaks volumes alone for the power of those relationships. Despite the anger still sharp in Valjean’s chest and the doubt still lingering on Enjolras’ tongue, he’s grateful it came up. It means he can have a chat with the orderlies after this lesson.   

     “Courf, um. Courf hit me. Courf,” He turns to Valjean and points to his temple again. “Word?”   

     “Knows?”   

     “No. Word?” Enjolras taps his forehead with more emphasis. “Word. Courf, um.”   

     “Knew?” tries Valjean but Enjolras shakes his head. The impressive progress takes a turn as the frustration can be seen bubbling in Enjolras’ chest. His fist curls and uncurls, his jaw clenches, as he repeatedly asks Valjean for the word. However, he doesn’t sign it. Valjean smiles. Enjolras really is his hardest working patient. “What if we asked Ferre to join the conversation?”   

     Enjolras pauses, all the stress, frustration, and pain seems to evaporate from his muscles and he smiles shyly. “Please. And Courf?”   

     The older man nods, standing up and disappearing in to the hall. In the time he’s gone to retrieve Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Enjolras picks up all the pieces of paper and stacks them carefully on the table in front of Valjean’s seat.    

     With his two friends, Valjean may be able to force him in to more difficult tasks without him realizing it. It’s an added bonus that he gets another hour a day to spend with them. There aren’t a whole lot of things that are harder to watch than Combeferre saying goodnight to Enjolras. The boy is reading on a bench a few yards down, the same place he always sits during the speech lessons. He glances up, then stands up quickly as the doctor approaches.    

     “Is everything alright?” He asks nervously, glancing at his watch. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been brought in to help calm Enjolras down.    

     “For the most part.” Valjean smiles reassuringly. “I was wondering if you were open to a different approach that may make his lessons easier.”   

     Combeferre narrows his eyes. “Easier how?”    

     “Ideally, all around easier. I’m trying to avoid his temper, especially on the days where he seems more on edge. Where I think it’s important for him to learn how to stay calm and in control, his speech lessons should no longer be a place where that’s something we take time to focus on.”   

     “But your goals are the same, right? We’ll still aim to have him progress as we planned?”     

     “Of course. In fact, I believe that if you and possibly Courfeyrac join us in the lessons, I may be able to push him further while keeping the temper at bay. We keep having to slow down our expectations to anticipate time spent focusing on that instead. With you and Courfeyrac, he listens better, he’s calmer, he’s happier. If this adjustment works the way I hope it can, we may actually be able to aim for more advanced goals.”   

     “That would be amazing. That,” Combeferre releases a surprised laugh, part relief and part joy for the potential, “that could change everything. If he’s able to communicate easier, he won’t get so frustrated. He won’t have to fight so hard because he’d understand more. It’ll be so much easier for him. And for us.”   

     Valjean nods once, keeping it carefully restrained. “Yes. Perhaps. I don’t want to get our hopes too high. This is not a normal approach to speech lessons so I don’t have experience with this. However, with Enjolras the normal approaches aren’t working.”   

     “They don’t normally do.” Combeferre says with a short laugh, bringing his own hope in control. “It might work, though. Right?”   

     “Knowing his relationship with you and Courfeyrac, I think it very well could.” Valjean says, grinning when the boy smiles proudly. “How did you two meet?”   

     “Our moms were best friends. We always kind of knew each other.”   

     “He was talking about bullies.”   

     “Oh, well he got in to a lot of little fights. Standing up against the bullies and all. Teachers always said to come and talk to them if there was trouble but Enjolras said he didn’t trust teachers because they only want to make it easy, not right. So he said.”   

     “How old was he?”     

     “Five.” Combeferre answers casually before continuing, noticing the impressed smile from Valjean. “For some reason, one time he came to me. Then, every time after that, I was with him. Nothing made our moms happier.”   

     “And Courfeyrac?”   

     “Oh,” laughs the boy. “He and Courfeyrac beat the crap out of each other because they both thought the other kid was bulling one of the special needs kids. The principal had no idea what to do.”

     _Thought_ , Valjean realizes with a smile. “I think it will incredibly valuable for you to join the lessons.”


	32. November 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras thinks he's going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to update! I was torn between a few different directions before settling. The next chapter should be updated soon!

         It’s not unusual for Combeferre to find himself awake at ungodly hours of the night. Enjolras sleeps on and off for only a couple hours at a time. Since the start of his physical therapy it has gotten better, where Enjolras sleeps for an hour or so directly after and is up for a long chunk of time but during the night he can sleep for nine hours straight or every two. There’s no consistency. Despite the doctor’s insistences that the stronger he gets, the more normal of a sleep schedule he’ll settle in to, Combeferre simply adjusted to Enjolras. Sleeping when he sleeps so he can be awake when he’s awake.    

     He wakes up right before Enjolras does, the tighten of his friends’ hand on his shirt a silent wake up call, and he falls asleep right after Enjolras does, listening to the shallow but steady breaths in the quiet room. At first, it was strange to nap during the day so Combeferre busied himself reading or catching up on the news, watching the movies Éponine often brought or just lying there, holding Enjolras close and focusing on the way his chest rose and fell because there was a time he never thought he’d be able to do that. The nightmares aren’t as bad when he does that. Eventually the exhaustion catches up to him, though, and he willingly lets his eyes close.    

     Combeferre likes the nights Enjolras sleeps every few hours even though it means Enjolras is a little more out of sorts the following day. The longer he sleeps, the more likely it is for his oxygen levels to drop and the machine to shriek. Despite knowing what it is and that everything will be fine, Combeferre’s heart still tightens in fear. He'll never get used to the mask over his friend’s face and every night he’s forced to wear it, it’s another night he’s forced to stay here.   

     On the nights Enjolras sleeps every few hours, Combeferre wakes up with him. He talks to him, reads out loud to him. On the rare occasions when Enjolras is just itching with energy they take long walks. Combeferre has learned how to measure Enjolras’ capability against his enthusiasm. There’s a difference between an excitable Enjolras who just wants to move and an Enjolras with enough energy to make it back to the room without falling asleep in the wheelchair. Sometimes they listen to podcasts if Combeferre is too tired to read or can’t reach his glasses. Sometimes they just lie there. They pass the nights quietly, with the soft words and companionable silences they have always found together.    

     It took almost two weeks for Combeferre to finally convince himself to go home. It was less than seven hours, leaving closer to midnight than it was safe to drive and coming back before the night shift nurses even left. He couldn't sleep and it was futile trying. Guilt and worry riddled his mind so he did the things he would do with Enjolras when the more restless nights struck. It’s not the same as doing them with Enjolras, even if he just laid there silently.   

     The noiseless apartment just wasn’t the same as the quiet hospital room and Combeferre would never thought he’d miss it. He didn’t think he’d miss the occasional flash of the green light, the steady beep of the heart monitor, or the uncomfortable way the bedrail digs in to his hip. He knew he’d miss the weight of Enjolras on his chest. No matter how many pillows his steals from the other empty beds, it doesn’t measure up. They don’t sniff quietly, they don’t curl next to him, they don’t rub their noses against his chest when they’re fighting sleep. It would be weird if the pillows did but that doesn’t keep him from wishing they would.    

     That first night, when Courfeyrac came home, it was to spend one of his first nights back in his own apartment in several weeks. His pillows didn’t talk to him or smile at him. His pillows didn’t return his playful kisses with that soft laugh Enjolras has. Most nights he tried to stay where someone would and Jehan always does. It didn’t surprise him to find Combeferre sitting at their table, alternating between writing out instructions and playing with the numbers in frighteningly small bank accounts. There wasn’t enough to match the large hospital bill that is still growing but maybe if he just added them differently it would work. Despite the dreadful hour, Courfeyrac only smiled and sat opposite of his friend to list out emergency contacts on the white board they got for the door.   

     Neither of them knew that Enjolras woke up in a panic before Combeferre even parked his car at the apartment. He didn't know that Enjolras pulled out the IV lines and moved to the couch. That the blond sat and waited because Combeferre would come back. Combeferre always comes back. He didn't remember the talk he had with Combeferre every day where his best friend had told him, “I have to start spending a few nights at home. I don't really want to but this is good. I’ll get the apartment ready for when you’re released. I'll be back before the sun even rises, okay? I’ll be back.”   

     And he was because Combeferre will always come back. He came back to find Enjolras' hand taped and the IV lines in his other arm. The nurses have learned it doesn’t matter where they are, Enjolras will end up pulling them out eventually. They’ve simply started to alternate hands so his skin has less of a chance to scar.    

     There were dark circles under his eyes and he was more confused, more unsure of everything that day. He didn’t let Combeferre leave the room. Both he and Combeferre napped several times, catching up on the sleepless night apart. Combeferre agreed with Larose though and three days later he went home again. He didn't sleep then either. He added to the instructions, tried a different way to add the budget, covered Enjolras' window with a thick blanket to make his room warmer and keep out the sharp light because it still hurts his eyes. When he went back to Enjolras, the IV lines were in the same hand and he cried as if Combeferre coming back to see him was the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for him.   

     Combeferre is up to leaving every other day now. He has dinner with Enjolras, despite how little the blond eats, and stays until eight. _Schedule and routine are key_. The response he gets as he starts packing his bag varies. Sometimes Enjolras forces himself to smile, other times he cries silently. He doesn’t understand why Combeferre has to leave but he sees it’s reluctant, which only seems to make it worse because then Enjolras thinks it’s something he’s doing wrong. He’ll beg Combeferre to stay, promise him he’ll get better. At what, Combeferre isn’t sure because Enjolras can never find the words to explain just what he thinks he’s doing wrong. He’ll smile and push Combeferre away, thinking his friend has other plans, other people to see. That hurts Combeferre the worst but it’s easier than having to pry Enjolras’ fingers off his arm.    

     Tonight Enjolras watches him with narrow eyes and Combeferre knows there’s going to be a fight. What kind though, he can’t tell yet. Combeferre smiles at him as often as he can without it looking guilty or pitying. His only response is a look away. Once he’s packed up and he can’t think of things to push the time, Combeferre sits on the bed. He expects this to be the type of night Enjolras pushes him away so he’s both surprised and confused, glad but worrisome when he reaches out for Combeferre’s hand. It would be too easy if Enjolras suddenly understands the possible value they gain from Combeferre leaving him.   

     “Going?” Enjolras asks quietly.   

     “Home.” Combeferre nods, squeezing his friend’s hand and smiling softly. “I don’t want to but it’ll help get you home faster.”   

     “Get you home?”   

     “Yeah, it'll get you home.”   

     “You going home?”   

     “I’m going home?”   

     “I’m going home?” repeats Enjolras. His blue eyes are locked on his friend’s face.   

     “Yeah. I have to go home.”   

     “Yeah?” Enjolras shifts up a little on the bed, his face lighting up.    

     Combeferre tilts his head. “Yeah what?”   

     “Yeah, I’m going home.” He glances down at their conjoined hands to piece out, “You and I going home.”   

     “Oh, no.” He shakes his head, his face blushing hot with sudden tears. Why couldn’t Enjolras beg him to stay instead? “No, I’m sorry, E. You still have a few weeks. I’m just going home for a few hours.”   

     “Yeah. Few hours.” The blond smiles at his friend, then lets go of his hand to pull himself off the bed. He talks as he moves, steps slow and cautious because if he’s going home, he has to prove he’s healthy enough for it. If he trips over his own feet in his exhaustion, Combeferre will force him back in bed the same way he does when Enjolras wants to go for a walk but they decide he isn’t capable of it. He’ll prove to them all, he’s capable of everything he was capable of doing before he fell. It just takes him a few more seconds is all. “Need shoes, Ferre. And coat. And hat.” He thinks out loud, looking around the floor. When his friend doesn’t tell him where they are, like he usually does, Enjolras glances up. Combeferre is staring at him, mouth a little open, eyes wide. “Ferre?”   

     His friend closes his mouth, swallowing, and shakes his head. He slowly stands off the bed, carefully thinking over his words. How he missed this, he can’t figure out. How he missed the hopeful, determined look of Enjolras predicting, confirming, then acting on a plan brings confused tears to his eyes and he shakes his head again. Either because he hasn’t seen that thought process cross his best friend’s face in six months or if he ignores it because when that look shows up in his dreams, it always ends bloody, Combeferre isn’t sure. He doesn’t dwell on it though, as Enjolras finds his shoes. The blond pats his arm reassuringly, smiling, as he sits down to pull them on.    

     “Enjolras,” Combeferre calls gently. “You’re not going home.”   

     “Who?”   

     “You.”   

     Enjolras smiles. “Yes.”    

     Ignoring his shaking hands, Combeferre sits next to him on the couch. He takes Enjolras’ shoe out of his hands but instead of putting it on, he puts it on the couch behind him so Enjolras can’t reach it. “Enjolras, you have to stay here.”   

     “Here? In hospital?” He knits his brow, swallowing down the doubt because he can get home. He’ll show Combeferre that he can get home. “No. Home. I’m going home. You and I going home.”   

     “I am going home. You are staying here.” Combeferre says slowly.   

     After staring at his friend for a long minute, his face almost unreadable outside of the occasional clench of his jaw, Enjolras composes himself and smiles. “See,” is all he says as he pats Combeferre’s knee and stands up to put his coat on.   

     Combeferre runs his hand through his hair. He hasn’t encountered this yet, the fierce determination where Enjolras has set his mind on a goal and very few things can deter him from accomplishing it. Before the accident, Combeferre could argue with him, make him see the flaws, the consequences and if he really disagreed, he’d fight him on it, which was rare but Enjolras always dropped the goal or altered it to please him. He can’t argue with Enjolras now because Enjolras can’t argue, not to clarify his motives or to defend his position. Combeferre can’t fight him on it because how can you get angry at him for just wanting to go home? At a loss for words, he stares dumbly as Enjolras focuses on buttoning his coat with shaking fingers.   

     “Enjolras.” He sighs. “E, you can’t leave yet.”   

     “Going home.” Enjolras comes back to the couch, takes his shoe from behind Combeferre, carefully watching his friend when he does as if expecting a physical reaction. Sitting down, he smiles. His hands tremble because they don't respond the same way they used to. Before he gets angry, he reminds himself he's accomplished this in PT and doesn't let himself think about how he's twenty four years old and struggles to tie his own shoes. He takes a deep breath, smiling to his friend again to show him he can stay in control. Just a few more seconds. That's all he needs. “Going home, Ferre. See? Going home.”   

     Combeferre grabs his hand when he stands up. When he tilts his head sympathetically, Enjolras pulls away, refusing to listen to him. He stumbles, his legs tired and shoes loose but he manages to stay on his feet. After putting on his hat, he throws his glasses, his favorite sketchbook, and the pictures of his friends in to a small bag. “See, Ferre? Going home.” He keeps saying. “You and I going home.”   

     Not knowing what to do, how to stop Enjolras without physically grabbing him, Combeferre just watches. It feels dumb and cruel, useless and terrifying because he's not sure just how far Enjolras could be able to get himself. Especially because Combeferre wouldn't have thought the blond had enough energy to get his jacket on, yet alone basically pack himself up. When Enjolras goes to the door, he looks over his shoulder to Combeferre and smiles.    

     “Come on, Ferre.” He grins. “We going home.”   

     Combeferre shakes his head but it only sharpens Enjolras' eyes. He walks out the door and all Combeferre can do is follow. The blond walks steadily down the hall to the elevator. He pushes the basement button instead of the main level. Combeferre doesn't correct it. When they get to the parking garage Enjolras knits his brow, forces himself to breathe steady, and simply gets back in the elevator that Combeferre had held open. After studying the buttons, he finds the right one. The receptionist tilts her head as Enjolras keeps his eyes on the door and walks straight out. Combeferre trails, his face set in a deep frown. She pages for Joly, knowing he's working tonight.

     Outside, the cold air hits Enjolras hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. Ignoring the realization that he doesn't know what month it is, he studies the parking lot for Combeferre's car. Not finding it, he turns to his friend. “Car?”   

     “I'm not driving you.”   

     “Why not?” Enjolras snaps. He doesn't know why Combeferre would keep him here. Look, he's outside, he's dressed, he's packed. He can go home. Combeferre should be helping him. “Going home, Ferre.”   

     “You're not healthy enough to go home. I'm not going to help you.”    

     Combeferre always helps. Combeferre is always there for him. Expect now he's not, Enjolras reminds himself. He pushes aside the cold, aching pain in his chest as he feels like he's losing the only person in the world he'd blindly follow, the only person he could always lean on. Maybe it's a test, he tells himself. Prove to him you can get home. Focusing on that is easier than thinking maybe he's never allowed to go home. He's different, sure, and things are harder but he's not so damaged that he's been committed. _Right?_ Right. Combeferre wouldn't let them do that to him. _But Combeferre isn't helping him leave_. Combeferre isn't always here any more. Looking back to the street, he clenches his jaw. Maybe Combeferre has school to go to or other friends to see. Tears fall down his cheeks and he quickly wipes them away. He doesn't realize Combeferre had walked up behind him until there's a hand on his back. Enjolras jumps to the side, shoving the hand away.    

     “Go home, Ferre!” He tells his friend angrily. His voice shakes as he commands it. If he's not going to help, there's no reason for him to make his friends wait, to miss class, to stay here when he has better things to do.    

     Courfeyrac. He can call Courfeyrac. Enjolras pushes past Combeferre, avoiding his hands and ignoring whatever he's saying. He doesn't see Joly watching them from the hospital door or when he flings it open. Even when he stops on the doormat to think of his next step, he misses the questioning look Joly gives Combeferre and the frightened, confused look that's returned. Stalking to the receptionist, he points at the phone and asks, “Please?”    

     She looks to Joly for the right response. He nods, nervous of what could be building, and she smiles at Enjolras. After walking around the desk, he refuses her offered chair because this shouldn't take long. He puts the phone to his ear but his fingers hesitate over the numbers. Combeferre and Joly watch him carefully but Enjolras doesn't notice them on purpose. The number doesn't come to him so he shakes his hand and clears his throat. After a minute passes, he pushes three quick buttons at random then hangs up the phone. Picking it up again, his finger hovers over the blurry numbers. He hangs up, then pulls off his bag to dig for his glasses. Once they're on, he picks the phone up again and waits to remember the number. His index finger shakes above the phone.    

     _You know Courfeyrac's number_ , he tells himself calmly. The numbers are blurry again and it's because he's crying now. Tears steadily falling down his cheeks. He shifts on his feet, still staring at the daunting numbers. Maybe he is that damaged. Maybe he has truly fucked up and landed himself in here for good. He's dressed, he's packed, he's downstairs. There's always one step he gets wrong, one thing he forgets how to do. He looks at the phone, his face starting to crumple.   

     “Enjolras,” Combeferre calls gently.    

     “No!” Enjolras shouts before his friend, his best friend, can elaborate, slamming the phone down. “Go home, Ferre!”   

     The sudden outburst makes a few nurses jump. The force shatters some of the black plastic. He pushes the chair away as he walks back around the desk, trying desperately to think through the anger and fear. Courfeyrac would come get him. Grantaire and Bahorel, too. He doesn't know those numbers either because if he forgot Courfeyrac's he's forgotten everyone's. Combeferre's calling his name again and it makes him angrier. He's never been angry at Combeferre and it confuses him, which makes thinking straight all the harder. “Stop! Stop, Ferre. Go home!”   

     He buries his hands in his hair, pulling at the short curls and shutting his eyes to get the disconnected thoughts in his head to even out. The brace is too bulky and he can feel the ridges over his forehead so he rips off the straps and throws it across the room. When he looks up to see where it went, he sees all the nurses are watching him carefully. He sees Combeferre, teary-eyed, scared Combeferre, trying to figure out how to help and Joly, trying to figure out what's wrong. Waiting patients look at him with their eyebrows raised and doctors have stopped to glare at him with those studious eyes doctors have, searching for the solution. Everyone is looking at him. Everyone is staring at him and Combeferre is crying.   

     “Fuck.” He whispers harshly. “Fuck!” He fucked up again. He was going home, not throwing a fit. Twenty-four year olds don't throw temper tantrums. They don't get themselves committed either.  _Going home. You're going home_.   

     Enjolras drops his gaze to the floor and walks out of the hospital as quickly as he can. There's no rhyme or reason to the direction he takes until he tells himself to go to the busiest street. Busy streets have buses. There are buses that he can take. He used to take the subway but he's taken buses before. The subway doesn't run this far out, he doesn't think. Combeferre and Joly follow so he speeds up. He doesn't run because he doesn't trust his feet and it's not long before Combeferre is at his side. When Combeferre reaches for his arm, Enjolras jerks it away.   

     Combeferre glances over his shoulder to Joly, then the hospital behind them. How did this get so bad so fast? He should have just stayed. He should have just crawled back on to the bed and fallen asleep with his best friend. Now Enjolras needs to prove to them he's okay, that he can do this, and from experience it's impossible to stop him. Fear grips Combeferre's heart, his lungs, his hands. Should they just let Enjolras walk until he passes out from exhaustion? Should they tackle him and drag him back to the hospital room? He's tried to leave before but it was more confused, more hopeful than determined and they easily steered him back to the bed, usually ending in him sleeping for several hours. But this is scarier. This is the same flash of anger that Combeferre saw when he climbed up on that god damn statue.    

     He shouts his best friend's name as Enjolras continues to make his way towards the intersection. Relief floods his chest when Enjolras stops at the street corner. Pleading with him to listen, Combeferre steps in front of his friend, his back to the traffic. Enjolras glances at his face, studying him carefully, then looks past him. He sees something that makes him nod, as if confirming his plan. His eyes stay locked on the bus stop as he steps forward. Combeferre backs up, his feet now off the curb. Joly's cautioning him. When Enjolras narrows his eyes and tries to step around him, Combeferre does the only thing he can think of doing. He pushes him. He pushes Enjolras back, away from the busy street.   

     The blond looks at him in shock, then tries again. Again, Combeferre pushes him back. It's not hard, it doesn't need to be because Enjolras isn't nearly as strong as he is. And yet it causes the blond to stumble back.    

     “Going home!” Enjolras shouts, pointing at the bus stop.    

     “No you're not!” He shouts back. “You can't, E. Not yet.”   

     “Yes! Going home. There! There, Ferre. Going home.” He points again to the bus stop.   

     When Enjolras tries to step around him again, Combeferre shoves him. This time it's harder than he meant to, all the anger and fear forced out in one reaction. It sends Enjolras to the ground, his head snapping back against the sidewalk.    

     Everything seems to stop, even the traffic behind them. Combeferre stares down at horror as Enjolras blinks up at the street lamp above him. They're both breathing heavily, both struck silent by shock. Enjolras slowly pushes himself up. He looks up to Combeferre, blinks a few times until his face crumples from the anger he saw on his best friend's face, from driving his friend to hitting him, from fucking up so royally. His hands shake under that weight and he falls back to the ground, sobbing. Combeferre drops to his knees, shuffling forward as he apologizes quickly and repeatedly. He wraps his hands around Enjolras' neck, his own hands shaking almost violently. Enjolras doesn't look at him. His eyes remained squeezed shut, tears running down to Combeferre’s hands.   

     Joly was right there, watching the scene and waiting for Combeferre to make a decision. Medically, he’d jump in but this was Combeferre’s choice. If it were Bossuet, he would have grabbed his face and forced him to calm down, pinned him down and hugged him fiercely. If it were Bossuet about to cross a busy street with not attention paid to the deadly cars, he would have pushed him too. If it were Bossuet he had just shoved to the ground, Bossuet's head he just saw snap back, Bossuet's ears that were bleeding, Joly's sure his hands would shake and his cries would echo in the dark, too. He sinks to the ground where both his friends are sobbing. It's hard to understand how common that sound is in their life now. Combeferre's hands are clamped around Enjolras' neck, keeping him still the same way he had six months ago. He's pressed his forehead against Enjolras' as he apologizes over and over and over again.    

     As gently as he can, Joly brings Combeferre up, away from where he was covering Enjolras' face. “His neck is fine, Combeferre. He’s fine.”   

     “He’s bleeding!” Combeferre shouts in a sudden panic. It’s a messy kind of cry, overwhelming and all consuming. There is more in his tears than just fear in the same way it was more than keeping Enjolras from the street in the force of that hit. “God Enjolras, I’m sorry! Why didn’t you just listen? I told you it was dangerous. I told you, I told you that you had no way down!”   

     His hands shake and his chest is constricting. Days blend until every flashing green light in the hospital room, every screeching machine, each second that ticked by fills his ears and he tries to sink back down to his best friend. Grabbing his arm, Joly squeezes tightly until Combeferre looks to him. “Either shut up and help me or go away.”   

     The resolution is quick, his hazel eyes flashing a forced calm that relaxes Joly. He knows that the fall wasn’t far enough, hard enough, or awkward enough to really hurt Enjolras but the fear in Combeferre's voice is frightening. The worst repercussions of this should only be emotional between the two and maybe a small headache. His friend is steady, reliable, constant. He's not a blubbering mess of doubt and regret, yelling at friends back in time. Joly isn’t sure of the nightmares Combeferre's been having or what he’s seen, who he blames, but he makes a mental note to talk with him later. Right now, it's more important to get them both back inside.

     “Why is he bleeding?” Combeferre asks cautiously, as if afraid of the answer.

     “It’s a normal reaction, remember? This happened a few weeks ago when he slipped in the hallway.” Joly reminds him. “Can you stay here while I grab a wheelchair?”   

     “I can move him?”    

     “Yeah. He’s fine, Combeferre. Just angry and confused.” Joly pats his arm, making sure that the same flash of steadiness is in his face before jogging back to the hospital. Combeferre looks down to his best friend. The cries have soften but his eyes are closed and one of his hands is clutching onto Combeferre’s wrist. Despite Joly’s reassurance, Combeferre moves carefully as he pulls Enjolras up into a gentle hug. When the blond clutches to his jacket, he returns it fiercely. They only part when Joly returns.    

     When back in the room, when Enjolras is safe and the doctor has once again confirmed everything is fine, Combeferre smiles. It's full of relief and exhaustion. He moves to the bed but Enjolras turns away from him. The painful clutch in his heart tears into the depth of his soul and suddenly, Combeferre can't breathe. Unable to look at Enjolras without losing control, he stares at his trembling hands and nods his understanding. As steady as he can, he promises to be back tomorrow before the sun rises. His bag is sitting by the door where he left it. It feels heavier now. He closes the door but doesn't let go of the doorknob until a gentle voice fills the hallway. Combeferre jumps, then drops his head when he realizes it's Joly.    

     “Don't go home.” The intern shakes his head.   

     “He doesn't want me in there.” Combeferre tells him softly. There are tears dripping off his chin. “It's okay. I would be pissed too.”   

     “Don't go home, Combeferre,” is all Joly says before he leaves. Alone in the hallway, Combeferre falls back against the wall and sobs hopelessly. Minutes or hours pass, he's not sure but when he finally composes himself and goes back to Enjolras, the blond is still awake. He does what he should have done in the first place and crawls onto bed. Combeferre collects his best friend in his arms and comforts the trembling hands and silent tears until they calm to a familiar rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest against his own. He doesn't fall asleep. He doesn't sleep at all that night. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees blood.

     He sees the awkward twist of his best friend's body. He sees the little scratches on his face, the blood filling his ears, the almost lifeless blinks in his big blue eyes. The rise and fall of Enjolras' chest, the steady breath against his shoulder, the constant beep of his heart is overwhelmed by the feeling that maybe this all would've been easier, even for Enjolras, if he just hadn't woken up. It scares Combeferre's eyes wide open and he stares at his best friend, clings to his best friend, silently crying because he knows just how much he loves him, how much he relies on him, how much he trusts him. It's the same as how much Combeferre needs Enjolras. A few times that night, Combeferre had to leave the bed to throw up when his wandering mind terrified him past the point of ignoring. Once when he couldn't help but think that a funeral would be a fraction of the cost and another time when he thinks if Enjolras knew this was the consequence of that protest he still would have gone through with it. If he knew that none of his friends got more than a few bruises and scratches, Enjolras wouldn't think twice about it.  _Progress_ , he'd say.  _It's going to bring progress, Combeferre._ Combeferre kisses the blond curls, then rests his cheek against the scar on his forehead and makes promises all night long, always adding _I love you_ in between each statement.

     He only falls asleep after Enjolras stirs awake, pulling him closer with his right hand before flinching at something. Combeferre parts to ask him what's hurting, panic rising quicker than he can control, but Enjolras only smiles, a short and shy smile, up at him. Tears fall again, still silent and haunting, but this time Combeferre closes his eyes and only feels the breath against his shoulder, the rise and fall of the chest, the warm weight in his arms. Enjolras isn't okay but he's alive and he can be happy in this life. If that's all Combeferre has to work with, that's all he needs because it means he still has Enjolras.


	33. November 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not particularly happy with this chapter and may edit it later on but for now I wanted to get it out of the way so I can move on. Especially since I've been really awful at updating consistently. This way, I'll update the next chapter within a week.

     It hurts. It hurts sharply in his chest to have to go home but Combeferre still agrees with the doctor. Enjolras had gotten better at dealing with the nurses, had shown more patience, even started picking up words outside of his speech lessons. In the weeks since they've made this decision, there has been but the one, painful incident. When Combeferre leaves now, Enjolras watches him with a deep frown but he doesn’t fight anymore. He doesn’t try to follow him out or cling to him. Occasionally he cries silently. The only thing that has changed from the other night is that he holds on to Combeferre’s hand whenever he’s in the room. Combeferre carefully watches Enjolras to try and anticipate each and every move, giving him anything he can while he's here in an attempt to make up for leaving. If Joly sees the hyper attention, the complete dedication, he doesn’t mention it just the same way Combeferre doesn't mention the other night.

     The intern stops by to see Enjolras whenever he’s working the twelve hour shifts. Combeferre stays two days and Courfeyrac stays two days, leaving Enjolras alone for the night three times a week. They alternate, never allowing him to completely rely on them, forcing him to adjust each night. He's quieter when they leave and where he doesn't always sleep, he never gets out of the bed.

     Jehan makes dinner for Courfeyrac when he doesn't stay with Enjolras and Éponine makes it easier for Combeferre. They give the necessary distraction, the quiet reassurance that the two need in order to continue leaving Enjolras. Combeferre spends every day at the hospital with him but he comes home to a new movie and hot popcorn. To a documentary paused where he fell asleep the night before and ice cream. To a book and tea and fluffy blankets. She pulls him close, forcing him to hold her or kisses him slowly and demanding his undivided attention. It makes the guilt easier. Tonight Courfeyrac had dinner with Enjolras so Combeferre could thank Éponine for being the amazing, wonderful person she is and an even better girlfriend. There was a plan for tonight but their dinner reservations were quickly ignored to enjoy the time in the apartment by themselves.

     There's something wrong, though. In the last week, the week after Combeferre hit his best friend, the nights at home have grown quieter. Something is settling on Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s chests that they silently label as nerves, nervous about the lack of funds, the growing familiarity of the hospital, of their new relationships. But there's something else, something bigger. They both know the reality is closer to concern, worry, fear even. Fear especially because something’s wrong. Combeferre watches guiltily and Courfeyrac stresses anxiously, both just waiting for the dreadful moment when the figure out what exactly it is.

     Enjolras hasn’t talked much in the last week. If it was just that, Combeferre would safely assume he’s still upset, still embarrassed, still angry but he’s also slept more and walked less. That’s different than anger. When forced to his physical therapy, he refuses to move. All he’s wanted to do is lie with Combeferre or Courfeyrac, curling up to them and closing his eyes instead of moving, chatting, smiling. His activity level has dropped dramatically. Where his vocabulary continues to grow, his words have become rare.

     Both Valjean and Larose have noticed but nothing has explained the new and disconcerting behavior. Joly reassured Combeferre, which was confirmed with Larose, that the new behavior shouldn’t have anything to do with the other night. Enjolras may not even remember that clearly. This is something bigger.

     _Perhaps his physical therapy is taking more out of him mentally. Maybe he's worried about going home. Depression isn't uncommon after traumatic brain injuries._ Courfeyrac stops the excuses there because Enjolras doesn't get depressed. He gets pissed. Combeferre only listens quietly, despite knowing just as well as Courfeyrac that something isn't right.  _Personalities can change after injuries such as this_.

     “You’re wrong.” Courfeyrac snapped, looking to Combeferre for support. “They’re wrong, Ferre. You know that. If he’s changed that drastically since June, we would have noticed months ago. He’s just the same, only a little quieter.”

     He still smiles at his friends, he still gets angry, gets riled up, gets righteous and tries to help. He's the same except for the confusion. Which of course leads to the fear and anger and tears. Besides that, and really only the confusion is new, the others are just triggered easier, well except for the tears because Enjolras never cried before, Enjolras is Enjolras. Courfeyrac will defend that till his last breath. His best friend is still here. If only Combeferre would back him up on it, the doctors would believe them and can start searching for what’s actually wrong. This quiet, sad Enjolras is new to the last week.

     “The symptoms point to depression.” Larose had said calmly. “I'm not saying that's what this is, only that it's a possibility and we must consider it.”

     _Loss of interest, decreased energy, insomnia._ Combeferre and Courfeyrac shudder against the thought. It’s not depression. Enjolras is not depressed and it’s only a matter of time until they figure out it’s this medicine or that nurse or the food he’s eating that’s causing this. In knowing that, in being told that, Combeferre and Courfeyrac still go home. They go home to their boyfriend and girlfriend and silently count the words Enjolras spoke that day until they’re distracted by the amazing people they’re in love with.

     “I like you.” Éponine says in between soundless moans as Combeferre bites down her neck. He's angry and worried, scared and useless but he can pretend nothing else exists when buried in Éponine's smell and her touches and her amazingly soft hair. He can forget everything but Éponine with her in his arms. He can forget that Enjolras is sitting alone in a dark, quiet hospital room.

     In her neck, where he pushes that image away the best he can, he replies. “I like you, too.”

     “No, like,” She breathes in as he bites gently on her jaw. “I, like, really like you.”

     His hands find their way from her hips to her face to slowly pull away and for a second, her heart stops in fear but his smile is as soft as his hold. “I like you, too. I, like, really like you.” He mimics and there is only a slight hint of amusement in his kind, hazel eyes.

     “You’re a jerk.” She says lightly, feigning insult.

     “You’re adorable.” He pulls her back to his lips and the soft, kind exchange quickly shifts to passionate. Combeferre slides down to lie flat on the couch and she rocks her hips against his. She sits up only to put on a show of taking her shirt off but her hands aren't quick enough for Combeferre, who growls. Reaching up, he knocks her hands away and finishes at his own speed. Éponine throws her head back to laugh. As soon as her neck is exposed, Combeferre pops up to kiss her down on to her back so he is now straddling his tiny, feisty girlfriend, who he is quickly falling in love with.

     Her legs wrap around his waist as he ducks down to lay kisses down her bare shoulders. As he’s busy teasing the skin around her black bra, she buries her hands in his soft hair. His content humming and her giggles stops short as a ring echoes in the nearly dark, mostly empty apartment. Sighing in frustration, he rests his forehead along her collarbone. Their heavy breathing is the only sound heard in between the shrill rings.

     “We can ignore it.” Combeferre suggests but even before he’s done asking he’s moving to the coffee table to check the number.

     “Please be Feuilly. Please be Feuilly.” Éponine repeats, her fingers crossed dramatically. “I don’t feel bad about killing Feuilly.”

     “I don’t know the number,” says Combeferre in a low tone, any mood lost in his growing concern and guilt. He looks up to Éponine, “I’m sorry. I should-”

     “No, definitely. You need to, just in case.” She sits up, watching him carefully.

     “Hello?” He answers, sitting next to his half naked girlfriend on the couch. She leans in as close as she can.

     “Combeferre?” It's Joly's voice. Combeferre's heart stops.

     “Yeah?”

     “It's Joly. I'm at the hospital.”

     Combeferre drops his head to his palm, trying to remember how to breathe. “What's wrong?”

     “Enjolras is sick.”

     “Sick?” He repeats dumbly. Éponine stands up, disappearing from view. With the blood rushing to his ears, he can’t hear her footsteps fading.

     “He has a fever. It's low yet rising and if it continues at the pace it is, it'll be bad soon. He's disoriented but he's asking for you. _Ferre_ is the only thing he's said.” Joly explains carefully, pausing before he adds, “I think you should come by, if you can.”

     “It’s bad?”

     Joly hesitates and it’s all the response Combeferre needs before he's standing up. “It can be. It can just be a spike in his temperature. We’re not sure yet.”

     “I’m on my way now.” Combeferre tells him as Éponine appears next to him with his shoes and coat. She is already wearing her own layers.

     “We can get dinner on the way,” she says.

     “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

     “Shut up,” she interrupts. Bending down to tie her boot laces, she continues, “You promised me a date. If I get one with you and Enjolras well then I’m a very lucky girl.”

     He looks at her in a soft awe before saying in a low and steady voice, “I love you.”

     Her breath catches and she blushes but she doesn’t stutter in a quick reply, repeating the words. Combeferre goes to say something else, to defend his claim or elaborate but she cuts him off. “We can do this in the car. Come on.”

  
  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Joly is waiting outside the room when they arrive, exactly forty minutes later. If Combeferre had driven, they would have gotten there twice as fast. It’s a good thing she’s here, he decides. He squeezes her hand, hoping to rid himself of the growing fear. When Joly’s bedside manner wavers in his concern, it’s time to start worrying.

     “Can I see him?” Combeferre asks immediately. He makes a point to keep his shoulders set and his back straight, aiming for confidence despite his crippling fear. 

     “The nurse is running some tests right now but it shouldn’t take much longer.” Joly tells him with a small smile. Given his jeans and baggy sweater, he’s no longer working.

     Combeferre can’t decide if that’s a good sign or not. “Is that a yes?”

     “Yeah,” resigns Joly after a thoughtful moment. The small smile remains on his face, patient and sympathetic. “Go ahead.”

     He doesn’t say anything as he brushes past him to get to his best friend. In the room a plump nurse Combeferre’s never met before is drawing blood from Enjolras. There’s no question that he has a fever. His cheeks are flushed a dark red, his eyes are shut closed, and his short curls are sticking to his forehead. The blond’s head slowly rolls back and forth on the pillow, rambling to the woman who responds quietly and placidly.

     “No. Don’t like. Please. No.” He mumbles. As he does, he tries to pull his arm away from the nurses’ cold latex gloves but the leather strap is keeping him tied to the bedrail. Clearly she’s learned her lesson that Enjolras doesn’t particularly behave. The fact that Combeferre doesn’t know her when she knows Enjolras makes his guilt grow cold down somewhere in his chest. The fact that they can’t get Enjolras to behave well enough without straps makes him grow angry and distrusting.

     “I know you don’t, sweetheart,” coos the nurse softly. “I won’t be much longer.”

     “Hi,” Combeferre calls quietly as to not startle her. The guilt and anger can be dealt with when the fever is gone.

     She looks Combeferre over with disinterest before turning back to her patient, whose head is now turned towards the window, his eyes closed and his cheeks tear stained. “Sorry, but you’ll have to wait outside until visitors hours.”

     “I just want to tell him I’m here, then I’ll be scarce.”

     “It can wait until visitors hours.” The nurse gives him a glare he’s been met with many times since Enjolras was first admitted but not once has he backed down. If you can fend off Enjolras’ stare, then you can fend off any plump nurse in floral scrubs.

     “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to tell him I’m here.” Combeferre says as he continues to move into the room. She puts her needle down and takes her hands off of Enjolras to place them sternly on her round hips. Before she can say anything, Combeferre is by the bed calling Enjolras’ name gently.

     The blond startles at the voice, franically moving to find his friend and once he does, the sigh he releases is heavy and emotional. Tears fill his eyes and he tries to reach out for Combeferre but both his hands are kept tight to the bedrail by the leather straps so all he can do is beg. Combeferre misses the painful flinch as his right hand falls back to the mattress. He’s too focused on the fever burning in those blue eyes. “Ferre. Hey Ferre.”

     “Hi, E. You’re sick, huh?” Combeferre smiles down at him before risking a quick glance to the nurse who has dropped her hands in exchange for watching the two boys curiously. There is an endearing smile, small in her pleasant surprise at the dear moment. It encourages the man and he sits on the bed, letting them both know he’s here to stay.

     “Ferre,” calls Enjolras through his quiet tears. He leans in to the touch when Combeferre bends to kiss him softly on the forehead, asking for a hug without the words. Combeferre wraps an arm around his shoulders to allow Enjolras to hide in his neck.

     “If you can keep him calm and still, I should be able to finish up pretty quickly.” The nurse says. She manages to sound defeated, grateful, and condescending all at once. Combeferre doesn’t mind. He doesn't care. Enjolras’ skin is hot against his own, sweat drips from his short hair, and his shuttering breaths vibrate in his arms. He’s miserable and small whimpers escape from the back of his throat the entire time the nurse is taking his blood. Combeferre holds himself awkwardly above Enjolras, the closest thing to a hug he can manage with the difficult position.

     Once she’s finally finished with the tests, she unstraps his wrists. Enjolras must have been waiting for it or felt the familiar tug of freedom on his arms because before the nurse can speak again, he's wrapping his arms around him desperately, pulling at the back of his shirt to keep him closer then Combeferre will let him in fear of hurting him. The fact that he’s used to the straps makes the cold anger stir in Combeferre’s stomach but for the time, he leaves it because Enjolras is sick and hurting and scared and he’s here to help fix all of that. Starting a fight with the nightshift nurses won’t fix that. The nurse makes an affirming noise, as if coming to a conclusion, then announces, “You’re his Ferre.”

     “Combeferre.” He introduces himself with his head just above Enjolras’.

     “He’s been asking for you.” The nurse pats Enjolras’ foot and looks on the sick boy sympathetically before turning to Combeferre. “I am glad you are here for him.”  


\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
     Courfeyrac bounces through the hallways, smiling at the nurses and stopping by to say hi to the many patients he has become friends with over the last few months. In fact, it takes him so long to finally get to his best friend’s room that he now plans to leave an hour early so he doesn’t lose time with Enjolras. Tomorrow, though, he’ll have to bring more doughnuts. Outside the all too familiar room, he tosses the empty box in a trash can and swings the door open gently, never knowing when Enjolras may be sleeping, especially in the last week. As it turns out, Enjolras is the only one not sleeping.

     Curled up on the couch is Joly and in the chair, Éponine is asleep with her feet on the edge of the bed and her arms crossed over her chest. She is dressed entirely too formally for a visit to the hospital. Her satin black shirt is wrinkled, her heels are tucked under the bed, and her lips are seductively red. Combeferre is asleep on the bed. One arm is wrapped protectively around Enjolras and the other is resting meaningfully on Éponines’ legs.

     He stops by the door, looking at the four. Combeferre wasn’t supposed to be here last night. Neither was Joly or Éponine. Enjolras isn’t supposed to be lying on Combeferre’s chest, restlessly clinging to his shirt. His fist grips then release the nice fabric every few seconds as if trying to find the right hold. His blue eyes are heavy, blurry, tear-filled, and he stares at nothing in particular on the other side of the room.

     For a minute, Courfeyrac isn’t sure what to do. He wants to back out and let them sleep because it looks like it was a long night but that means leaving Enjolras and he wants to collect him in his arms and fix whatever is wrong because something is so clearly wrong. He can’t leave although the growing anger that he was right would make it easy to storm into the doctor’s office. The first thing Courfeyrac does is take off his jacket and drapes it over Joly. His sweater is big and ugly but doesn’t look  cozy. Then he grabs Combeferres’ sports jacket, it was definitely supposed to be a big night for the new couple, and covers Éponine. The girl shifts slightly, gathering the material in her hands and wrapping it closer around herself.

     He then sits on the other side of the bed, opposite of Combeferre. Enjolras doesn’t move with the weight shift of the bed but he does when Courfeyrac rests a hand over his own fidgeting fingers. Enjolras switches his grip from Combeferre to Courfeyrac. It’s tight and his fingers are shaking around Courfeyrac’s. When he does look over, it's with a great deal of effort that he shifts his head far enough to see who he’s holding on to. Courfeyrac places a finger to his lips, aiming to let the others sleep for as long as they can, and smiles.

     “Hi, E.” He says softly, concern threatening his warm smile as he brushes his hand across the burning forehead, pushing the short curls away from his eyes. Enjolras closes his eyes at the touch, whimpering softly in a painful, pitiful way. Before the accident, a sick Enjolras would try his best to simply power through whatever illness he was combating at the time and it often worked. The defeated sadness scares Courfeyrac.That's wrong.

     When Courfeyrac pulls his hand away from the hot forehead, Enjolras blinks. His face then crumples and he turns to bury himself into Combeferre but his hand pulls Courfeyrac with him, trying to keep him close as well. The boy falls forward in the sudden shift. His free hand plants itself against the wall with a thud. He curses quietly under his breath as the smack causes Combeferre to stir. Removing his hand from Éponine, he pulls Enjolras closer.

     “Hey. Hey, E. It’s okay.” He’s saying softly without opening his eyes. A hand brushes Enjolras’ hair off his forehead before pulling him closer. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

     Courfeyrac gets off the bed, having to extract his hand from Enjolras’ which only causes the blond to pull more at Combeferre with a breathy cry muffled in his shirt. He quickly maneuvers his way around the bed to grab Combeferres’ glasses from the nightstand. “Here Ferre.”

     The other boy takes them without a word. His focus is now on sitting up, collecting the feverish blond until Enjolras in nearly lying on top of him. Combeferres’ chin rests on the top of his head. He keeps on hand wrapped around Enjolras’ back and the other across his shoulders, cupped around the back of his neck. Only then does Enjolras start to calm down, taking deep, shuddering breaths.

     “Thanks, Courf.” Combeferre says after looking up to his friend.

     “No problem.” Courfeyrac's eyes are wide as he takes in his friend. Silent tears now slide down the pale face with stark red flushes on his cheeks, eyes shut tight. “What’s going on, Ferre?”

     “He’s sick.”

     “No shit. I mean why? What’s wrong?”

     Combeferre shrugs with Enjolras in his arms. He glances around Courfeyrac at Éponine, who is starting to wake, before answering. “They don’t know yet.”

     “I knew it!” Courfeyrac snaps suddenly. It’s loud and sharp. Joly startles awake and Éponine brushes her hair out of her face to look at him, faces baffled by sleep but not surprised by the reason or person yelling. “I knew something was wrong. What’s wrong? Why is he sick?”

     “We’re not sure yet.” Joly answers calmly. He stretches his arms above his head before standing up to feel Enjolras’ forehead. “I’d guess an infection.”

     “So fix this. Fix him. He should be done with this shit.” Courfeyrac’s voice wavers. His tears threaten more violently than Enjolras’.

     “It’s not that simple.”

     Courfeyrac moves back to the other side of the bed to scratch circles along Enjolras’ back. “If it’s an infection it is that easy. I’ve had infections before and some antibiotics fixed it right up.”

     “For all we know, it could be something as small and difficult to catch as a tooth infection causing this.”

     “Then call a dentist!” Courfeyrac hisses. His voice drops the closer to Enjolras he is and Joly takes note of it. Should they have a conference with Larose, then it would probably be best to have it here. With Enjolras here, within sight and reach could keep Courfeyrac aware of the possibility of getting kicked out should he act out.

     “We will know more in a few hours, Courf. He’s okay right now, just a little sick.” Joly tries to reassure. “I’m going to see if anything’s changed, okay? Promise me you’ll be in control, please.”

     Only being able to nod for Joly, the intern squeezes Courfeyrac’s arm before leaving. Courfeyrac looks up to Enjolras. He can feel the heat radiating through his friend's shirt. “He doesn’t look good, Ferre.”

     “I know but it could just be a cold or the flu.”

     “I mean, he looks really bad, Ferre.” He says quietly, as if admitting it makes it true.

     “I know.”

     “He’s going to be okay, though.” Courfeyrac says with a short nod. His hand runs anxiously through his hair. “Right?”

     The fear in Courfeyrac’s question, the need for confirmation, pulls Combeferre’s attention up from where he was staring at his and Enjolras’ intertwined hands. Courfeyrac is scared, his rising heart beat almost as easy to hear as Enjolras’ heart monitor and Combeferre knows exactly what he is thinking. It was only five months ago when they were a few minutes away from planning a funeral and that’s a fear that never goes away. Now awake, Éponine is leaning in close to see Enjolras better, trying to catch his eye for a smile or at least recognition. She gets only a quiet search of her face but it’s long enough to distract the blond while Combeferre reaches out with his one hand to pull Courfeyrac’s out of his hair.

     “He’ll be fine.” Combeferre promises with more conviction than he feels.

     Courfeyrac gives him an equally forced smile. “Of course he will. I mean, it's Enjolras.”

     "Right. It's Enjolras."

     For some reason, it's harder to lie this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if this chapter was just unreadable or awkward, I can fix it! I'm happier with the way the next one is coming out!!


	34. November 26/27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly can fix it. Joly needs to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the amazing comments! I have several chapters written but, unfortunately they're all further down the timeline. Still, I should be able to update soon :)

         It’s quiet. Quiet and dark. The only noises in the room come from the pressure of the oxygen mask and the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Joly sits cross legged on the bed. His lips are pursed thoughtfully and his eyes rarely venture away from his friend’s face. He is only one of the many who have refused to leave the building until Enjolras is better. Or at this point, they’d settle for knowing what’s wrong. Courfeyrac is asleep on the floor, covered in a thin blanket and clutching a pillow to his chest as if it’s a part of him. On the couch, Combeferre is stretched out as far as he can get. One leg is planted on the floor, right next to Courfeyrac’s back, while the other is on the edge of the couch against the wall. Both arms are thrown above his head.    

     Joly looks back to Enjolras. He should find blankets and pillows for them. Maybe another couch like they had before. That’s if they figure out what’s attacking Enjolras’ system. If they don’t, it won’t matter. The fever is already dangerously high. A few more degrees and they won’t be able to help anymore. Cool cloths and ice chips have done little to help. Joly encouraged it because he knew Combeferre and Courfeyrac needed to do something, to feel like they were helping. It was easier to believe than the begging. Their efforts were tragic. Joly’s chest sits heavy with the understanding that it was all futile. Infections can not be chased away by frozen water and soft words. Soon they won’t have to sleep in Valjean’s office or wake up stiff from the waiting room chairs anymore. They’ll be coordinating rides to the funeral.   

     With that knowledge, Joly sits on his friend’s hospital bed and thinks. As Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and the others have done, he sits up with Enjolras without a care for the clock. It’s well into the night but it’s a holiday and he doesn’t work this week. Even if he did, as some of their friends do, they each feel the fleeting time.    

     There are paper cuts along his fingers from searching the medical books. He’s sure he’ll need stronger glasses from the time spent staring at medical research on his computer. It’ll all be worth it though, if he can save Enjolras. He’d give so much more and then some, if it meant saving Enjolras, and he’s no different than the others. Grantaire has promised his soul to anyone who would listen. Bahorel offered a kidney. They all feel the cold pit of helplessness deep in their chest that has only ever ached once, five months ago. This time is different. In June, Enjolras would have left them overnight. Now they watch him fade by the minutes. It leaves them with the illusion that if they just cling to his hand tightly enough, they can keep him by their side. Never would they have thought they’d be wishing for the fear of June in the quiet black nights.   

     Shifting forward to get closer to his friend, as if half an inch could make all the difference, his knee bumps Enjolras’ leg. The blond stirs, his head rolls on the pillow. Joly smiles when the blue eyes drift over his face. It falls quickly when Enjolras’ face scrunches up in discomfort. He watches as the boy tries to move away from the oxygen mask, then brings his left hand up to push it off. His movements are heavy, exhausting energy with the littlest of flinches. Knitting his brow, Joly leans closer. Why would Enjolras use his left hand? It’s the hand attached to the heart monitor, IV lines, and the blood pressure monitor around his wrist. It’s bulky and tied down. He’s a righty. As he gracelessly tries to get the mask off, he dislodges the heart monitor. Before the shriek can fill the room, Joly quickly grabs Enjolras’ wrist and replaces the device.   

     He carefully intertwines their fingers. For the moment, he forgets his medical training and his paper cuts. Instead he pulls off the mask, smiling softly at his friend. He brushes a few curls off his sweaty forehead, then trails his fingers along Enjolras’ jaw to get his attention. Tilting the blonds’ chin to face him, Joly grins at the short twitch of a smile he gets as recognition crosses Enjolras’ flushed face. It’s nothing more than a pull of the corner of his mouth but for Joly, it’s a glaring light of hope.    

     His breathing is short and shallow, a weight not unlike their own sits on his chest just as well. He closes his eyes for long seconds at a time as if trying to summon up the energy to fight. Joly calls his name softly and still, it seems as if it echoes in the still hospital. Although Enjolras doesn’t look to him, he opens his eyes. When Joly calls his name again, Enjolras glances towards him without moving his head.    

     “Hi. Hey.” He whispers with a short, painful laugh. Tears slip down his cheeks. He’s so used to crying that he often doesn’t realize when he is anymore. He wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve, thoughtless to how unhealthy it is. “I’m sorry.” The tears grab at his throat. Each word hurts more and more. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can fix this.”   

     Enjolras closes his eyes. His hand twitches in Joly’s. The intern shakes his head, looking down at their hands, before squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threaten more violently now. When he looks back up, Enjolras’ eyes are closed. He’s not asleep, though. That would be too kind. Joly bites his bottom lip. He shifts up to his knees in order to replace the oxygen mask and plant a gentle kiss on his forehead but flinches back when Enjolras’ face tightens in a pained grimace.    

     Joly knits his brow, studying his friend’s face carefully. That was something new. He glances down Enjolras’ neck, his chest, his legs. Finding nothing, he leans forward again. He cups his hand around Enjolras’ neck, begging him to say it, to give him the piece he needs. “Come on, Enjolras. What was that? What was it?” Joly pulls off the mask with more haste than he ever would but hope floods his veins and blinds his patience. “I can do this, E.” He promises. “I know. I know I can. I just need a little more. Please, Enjolras. I can fix this. I have to fix this.”   

     When there’s no response, Joly drops his forehead to his friend’s chest. Tears leave small spots on the thin t-shirt. As they start to fall harder in his growing defeat, Joly moves closer. He tries to wrap his arms around his friend’s neck, only to feel another painful hitch escape. This time, Joly catches the uncomfortable shift of Enjolras’ right shoulder. Joly carefully examines his arm, slowly making his way down to the black brace. There is no reaction from Enjolras until Joly picks his hand up. The blond pushes his head back into the pillow, a soft whimper escaping between heavy breaths. It’s the first sound he’s made in two days.    

     “That shouldn’t hurt.” Joly says to himself. Shaking his head, he looks down at his friend’s hand. “That shouldn’t hurt at all.” He carefully unstraps the brace, bringing more painful sounds from his friend. “I know, I’m sorry.”   

     There is nothing he can see right away but at a closer look, running his fingers along the top of his arm, he discovers Enjolras’ wrist is slightly swollen. The area is warmer to the touch and far more painful, according to the silent tears running down the pale cheeks. Fueled by the new information, Joly jumps off the bed and turns to run out the room. He spins back, his shoes squeaking on the pristine hospital floors to kiss his friend’s forehead and replace the oxygen mask before sprinting out of the room.   

     “Where are Enjolras’ x-rays?” He asks as he swings open Larose’s office door. The doctor doesn’t jump at the sudden intrusion. He only glances over from where he was rereading Enjolras’ test results, eyes bleary and bones heavy because it doesn’t matter how many times he rereads those numbers, they still don’t tell him anything. Joly asks again, his excitement and hope clear. Larose points to the wall. “I think it’s his wrist.” The young intern explains as he moves to the x-rays. He turns on the backlight and studies the images as he continues to talk in a frantic rush of confidence. “The skin is warm and puffy. And it’s hurting him, you can tell when you touch it. Which one is from after he punched Javert?”   

     “The one on the far left.” Larose slowly pushes himself out of his chair to stand next to the boy. Enough time passes where they study the images that the light starts to burn spots in their vision.   

     “There,” whispers Joly. He points to the small crack at the top of Enjolras’ ulna. It’s barely large enough for the light to seep through. “The bone is splintered. See? It’s small, just barely noticeable but it’s enough to harbor an infection.”   

     Larose leans in, narrowing his eyes. He studies an older x-ray, comparing the bone for a long minute before smacking Joly on the back. The boy stumbles forward a step at the sudden force of the hit. “Good job.” The man doesn’t smile as he moves to his desk or when he calls for a surgeon. He doesn’t smile until he’s halfway out the door, fixing the collar of his white coat. Glancing to Joly, who’s still staring at the images, he smiles a small and some how reassuring grin. “Why don’t you go tell everyone that we might just be able to save him yet?”   

     Joly’s only stop to the room is at one of the many automatic hand sanitizer dispensers. He gets to the room at the same time several nurses do. They go in first, faces set sternly with the order to get their patient ready for surgery. The sudden activity startles Courfeyrac and Combeferre awake. Joly ushers them out, only successfully stopping Courfeyrac’s frantic screaming when he takes his friend’s face in his hands and commands him to shut up. “We think we figured it out.”   

     “What?” breathes Courfeyrac, his fear shifting so quickly to hope that it leaves him nearly speechless. “He’s going to be okay?”     

     “We don’t know that yet.” Joly wipes a tear away with his thumb before letting go of his friend’s face. “He has a small fracture at the top of his ulna. We think the metal shifted when he punched Javert, which means the bone was compromised before that but the force of the hit made it just big enough for us to see. Otherwise, we may never have caught it.”   

     “So what now?” Combeferre asks, looking down at their feet with squinting eyes. He must not have been able to grab his glasses in the rush. Before Joly can, Courfeyrac reaches out and takes his hand. There’s the briefest twitch of a grateful smile before he grows stoic and waits for Joly’s response.   

     “They’re prepping him for surgery now. If it goes well, they’ll be able to remove the infection and fix the metal rods so he doesn’t have to get another surgery after.”   

     “And if it doesn’t go well?” Courfeyrac sniffles.   

     Joly licks his bottom lip, using the beat of silences to steady his voice. “It wouldn’t have matter anyway.”   

     “What does that mean?” Courfeyrac asks. His own words break, seemingly oblivious to the tears falling down his cheeks.    

     “If it doesn’t go well the only difference would be the cause written down on his death certificate,” explains Combeferre rather bluntly.    

     Courfeyrac drops his gaze to the floor and nods shortly. Joly hates how easily they’ve learned to accept this. The irishman sucks in a deep breath as he looks up again. “Should we tell the others?”     

     “What time is it?”   

     “Does it matter?” He asks, squeezing Combeferre’s hand. The other man shakes his head. They watch Enjolras be wheeled to the OR before grabbing Combeferre’s glasses and walking to Valjean’s office on the other side of the hospital. Combeferre grows nervous and Courfeyrac restless with being so far away from Enjolras. They want to reach out and hold his hand, run their fingers through his hair, whisper encouraging things despite their own continuously growing fear and disbelief.    

     The only one of their friends awake is Grantaire. He’s sitting outside the door, against the door, with a hand on his forehead and his knees pulled close to his chest. As they get closer, the sketchpad resting against his thighs is easy to see, the gray colored pencil short and angled. He jumps up when he sees the trio coming down the hall. With the sketchpad in his hands, he runs to meet them.    

     “I was wondering if you could give E this.” He asks in a quick whisper. Across the paper is an incredibly accurate drawing of Dante. In the drawing, the little gray cat is sitting on a windowsill in the Musain with the sun behind him and posters for some rally or another stacked on their usual table. “I know he’s too sick for me to risk bringing Dante in but I’ve read how pets can help fight illnesses and such. Maybe seeing it can be similar to the real thing. Wait.” He stops talking, studying their faces. “What’s wrong?”   

     “He’s not worse. I promise.” Courfeyrac places a reassuring hand on the artist’s back and leads him into the office. What friends aren’t scattered along the couch and two armchairs are snuggled together in sleeping bags, mismatching pillows, and the many knit blankets Jehan filled the time waiting with making. They wake them up gently, knowing that each one is haunted by just this moment where they’re called upon to say their last words to Enjolras.    

     Joly takes the lead in the conversation, retelling everyone what he told Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The room is quiet for several long minutes before Bahorel clears his throat and awkwardly raises his hand from where he’s sitting at Feuilly’s feet. “So he has to get another surgery?”   

     “Yes. He is getting prepped now.” Joly explains. Again the room falls quiet, eyes dropping to their laps. “Listen, I know what happened last time but this is better than it sounds.”   

     “God I hope so.” Bahorel tries to laugh.   

     “How, Joly? How is another surgery good? He should be planning on going home, not planning for another fucking surgery.” Grantaire snaps. His words have a bite to them that don’t belong directed to Joly. A firm squeeze to his shoulder from Jehan is enough to remind him of that. Grantaire drops his head back to the closed sketchpad in his hands. “I’m sorry.”   

     “It’s okay, R.” Joly says and he is really all too good with them. “I get it. I’m not saying it’s fair because lord knows nothing about this situation is fair. But now they know what’s wrong which means they know how to fix it.”   

     “This surgery isn’t going to be like the other ones.” Combeferre adds solemnly. He doesn’t look as tired as Grantaire thought he would. Maybe it’s because his brown eyes are red and dry from tears that have surely fallen that the exhaustion has been pushed aside. “This surgery could save his life.”   

     “He’s that sick?” Jehan shifts on the couch but his hand doesn’t leave Grantaire’s back.   

     Combeferre’s gaze shifts away from his waiting friends, slightly up and to the right before he nods and finds Jehan again. “He’s that sick.”   

     “Is he dying?” Grantaire whispers suddenly, afraid of saying it too loud. Everyone turns to him, then Combeferre who’s gaze didn’t leave the artist’s face. No one has spoken it, despite the growing realization. Hearing it out loud sounds like an insult to Enjolras. A long minute passes before Combeferre tears his eyes away from Grantaire and to his bare feet. He looks to Joly, silently asking if he’d answer.   

     A short, pained smile falls as quickly as it rose. Joly puts his hand on his friend’s back the same way Jehan’s rests on Grantaire’s. “Based on the symptoms he’s having, it’s a pretty bad infection but we won’t know if it reached the bone until we operate.”   

     “If it has?” Éponine asks softly.   

     “Then it’s more serious.”   

     Grantaire scoffs. “As opposed to this being only mildly life-threatening?”    

     “If the infection has reached the bone, he runs the risk of losing his arm. If it's reached his organs, he may not survive. Even with the surgery.”   

     “Without the surgery though,” Combeferre says as he suddenly finds his voice. “He’ll die.”   

     It grows quiet again, the word sitting heavy above them all. Grantaire’s face has sobered from the angry bitterness to a strangely patient look. He shifts on the couch as if summoning the courage to grow brave. “What do we do now?”     

     “We wait.” Joly answers. The others nod, sinking back into the cushions and into the support of the friends around them. No one sits without a hand in their own, or a head on their shoulder. Courfeyrac and Combeferre lean against the back of Valjean’s desk, gratefully accepting the blankets tossed their way. They sit close to each other, their thoughts distant yet as intertwined in the same memories and fears as their fingers.

     “You know,” Bossuet says suddenly. With a look to his watch, he announces, “Today is Thanksgiving.”   

     “It used to be his favorite holiday,” comments Marius mournfully. His arms are wrapped around Cosette but it looks like she’s comforting him more than he is her.    

     “It still can be.” Grantaire snaps. Everyone nods and they quietly go back to waiting with that hopeful statement.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     “Alright, Enjolras.” The anesthesiologist says with a warm smile. She brings the mask towards his face. From reading his file, she doesn’t expect any answer but she asks anyway. “Can you count backwards from ten for me?”   

     He jerks his head away from her the best he can manage. It takes almost all of his energy, feeling his body grow heavier with each breath as if he’s running on his last few. Tears are running down the corner of his eyes. He can barely see the person behind his head with the pain in his vision and the light burning above him. Where he knows she’s talking, there is no chance of even trying to figure it out. He needs someone he can trust. He needs his friends. Pulling from somewhere deep down in his limited reserves, he manages a shallow, “No.”   

     The woman looks away to one of the nurses writing down his blood pressure. At the denial, she looks up from the file and knits her brow. The anesthesiologist turns back to her patient, trying to decipher the frightened mumbles. The young nurse asks, “Is he refusing the surgery?”   

     “No. He’s too sick for him to understand that.” The anesthesiologist snaps. When she gently wipes away the stream of tears and Enjolras shifts into her touch, her heart aches. This is her problem, her girlfriend would tell her. It is not only unprofessional but unnecessary to get attach to patients she sees for only a few hours of their life. It makes her job harder, the losses more painful, and, at times, even compromises her judgement. Deciding that this boy deserves just a little bit of that risk, she turns to the nurse. “Is his emergency contact here?”   

     Sensing the sudden charge of authority in her voice, the nurse simply falls into step and checks the file. “Both of them are. Or were when we moved him here.”   

     “Go get them, please. We just need confirmation.” Once the nurse leaves, the kind woman rests her elbow on the bed and gently goes back to wiping the boy’s tears away. Despite knowing he can’t understand her, she promises over and over again, “They’re coming.”  

     The nurse who was dispatched to find Combeferre doesn’t have to look far. After asking one head nurse, she learns they’re all in Jean Valjean’s office. It looks like the kids are waiting for a slumber party to start and not a hopefully life saving surgery. Combeferre and Courfeyrac jump to their feet once called for and she quietly reassures the group before leading them down to the OR, saying they just need to confirm something. She doubts it’s true but it’s what she’s been told. The children seem content with that excuse. After they’re both scrubbed up, she lets them into the surgical room.    

     The anesthesiologist smiles at them, torn between the frightened boy and the ticking clock. She doesn’t have long before the surgeon is here and a dangerously short time before Enjolras runs out of the ability to fight. “I think he’s scared. I thought you may be able to comfort him some. I’m afraid we can only allow one, though.”   

     Courfeyrac steps forward, startling Combeferre still. He goes straight to his friend but only stays long enough to brush the curls off his forehead and kiss him firmly before leaving with a quick hug to Combeferre. It takes him a moment to register what Courfeyrac just did, what he gave him and for the moment, it goes unthought of because Enjolras is right there. Crying and scared and slowly dying from something as horribly mundane as an infection.    

     He wants to push the anesthesiologist away and lock everyone out so he can grab Enjolras, pull him into a hug and make promises that he’s not even sure he believes anymore because there are more machines attached to his best friend than Combeferre has ever seen, a bright, movable light centered above Enjolras, and worse of all a tray with scalpels, needles, clamps and other surgical materials cleaned and prepared to cut open his best friend.   

     Pulling in a long breath, he crosses the room and takes Enjolras’ face in his hands. A sob breaks through Enjolras’ chest once he finally clears his vision enough to notice who it is. Combeferre kisses the warm forehead, brushing back curls with one hand and wiping the tears away with the other. Refusing to let go of Enjolras, Combeferre can feel the heat as if the infection is breathing from his skin. Enjolras lets out another broken sob, bringing his left hand to cling onto Combeferre’s arm, and crying steadily now, hurting and confused. He’s asking mumbled questions and pleading broken requests, closing his eyes against the tears. Combeferre moves his hand from his friend’s forehead to hold his hand, saying, “I’m here. It’s okay, I’m here.”   

     “Home.” He manages to say just clear enough for Combeferre to understand. “Home? Ferre. Home.”   

     Combeferre drops his forehead to Enjolras’ and shuts his eyes against tears of his own. They slip down his cheeks despite his efforts. “Soon. Soon, Enjolras. I promise.”   

     Behind them the door opens and a doctor walks in with two more nurses. When catching sight of her patient shifting uncomfortably on the bed, the surgeon glares at the anesthesiologist. At work, you’d never guess they just moved in together. “Why is he still awake?”   

     “He panicked. Wanted to see his friend.”   

     “Wanting to see his friend.” The woman repeats disbelievingly to herself, narrowing her sharp eyes to the boys still close together. Combeferre doesn’t want to risk leaving Enjolras until he is forced to so he keeps still, only moving to wipe Enjolras’ tears away. “Let’s move fast, then. Time is critical.”   

     “I was thinking we could use a local anesthetic. It would put less stress on his respiratory system, which is already labored from the fever.” The anesthesiologist says, using the machines to prove her point. “Then, perhaps, Combeferre can stay with him. Given the risk of the surgery I understand if you say no but,” she pauses, “given the risk of the surgery it feels like something we could give them.”   

     The surgeon studies the woman, both annoyed and in love with her soft heart, then looks to her patient and his friend. Rolling her neck with a forced sigh, she commands, “Get the local started.” Then to a nurse, “Find him a chair.”   

     She walks around to the right side of the bed, shaking her head at the interruption. Combeferre glances up to her, keeping his hand tight around Enjolras’ and close to his chest while the other runs a soft thumb across his friends’ burning temple. “Thank you, doctor.”   

     “You do not move him, you do not speak above a whisper, and you do what I say when I say it. Do you understand me?”   

     “Yes, ma’am.”  

     Her eyes soften in a flash, flickering to Enjolras’ tear filled eyes where they are locked on Combeferre, and quietly defends herself. “It doesn’t look like we could part you two anyway.”   

     Someone brings Combeferre a stool to sit on and he settles his chin on the bed next to Enjolras. There is a partition over Enjolras’ shoulder, blocking his view from the surgery. Where the mask they forced Combeferre to wear frightens Enjolras, it helps with the smell of iron and disinfectant that quickly fills the room. It’s quiet, outside of the small whispers Combeferre promises Enjolras, who had calmed enough in Combeferre’s presence that the tears have almost completely dried, and the quiet mutterings of the doctor. An hour goes by, then two and three. Enjolras’ breathing slows but Combeferre continues to brush back his hair, as if he’s just fighting the flu or a stomach bug. When a single tear falls from the corner of his eye, Combeferre is quick to wipe it away.   

     After a quick kiss to his forehead, Combeferre closes his eyes and pretends it’s just like home. They’re home over fall break. It’s snowing. The apartment is decorated and Enjolras sick so Combeferre stays home with him. They send their apologizes to his parents but they understand. Courfeyrac has a long list of holiday movies lined up and keeps a string of witty commentary in an attempt to distract Enjolras from his rebelling stomach or aching chest. Joly brings by some of Musichetta’s food and checks on their friend, then much to his horror everyone else comes over. Enjolras laughs softly, smiles weakly at his friends, watches them happily despite the bug he’s fighting but he never leaves Combeferre’s gentle touch as his fingers card through his curls and his other hand rubs circles in his back. He leans into the comfort like a child would to a parent and Combeferre is more than happy to be that support for him.   

     A nurse asks Combeferre to shift back as she places an oxygen mask over the blond’s face. Enjolras doesn’t fight. He only manages a light twitch of his fingers in Combeferre’s hand. The nurse smiles encouragingly to Combeferre but it doesn’t help the growing fear, especially when Enjolras starts to close his eyes for longer stretches of time. It’s not long before they stay closed. He tells himself Enjolras just fell asleep. Combeferre drops his head to the bed in front of his friend’s face, turned to him, so when he wakes up the first thing he’ll see is Combeferre. He doesn’t know when but eventually he falls asleep too. Just like home.   

     The doctor glances up briefly, as she had every half hour since she started, but this time she pauses to stare at the sleeping boys on her operating bed. She’s worked on younger patients before, with sadder cases and higher risks. This time, though, something’s pulling at her chest. Something she must force away if she’s going to save this boy’s life. “Put the boy under. Get his friend out of here.”   

     “Doctor,” the anesthesiologist starts but her protest is nothing more than a wave towards the intertwining hands. It’s clear these two have something that builds that emotion in others, whatever emotion that let them stay in the first place. She finds it annoying, yet the tenderness wins out, despite her efforts to avoid it.   

     “Fine. But put him under. We have at least two more hours.” She ignores the grateful smirk from her girlfriend.    

     The anesthesiologist does as she’s told, then asks, “How is it looking?”   

     After another brief look up, she shrugs. “We’re going to see how strong he is.”   

     “I think he’s pretty strong.”   

     “How could you know that?”   

     “With a relationship like that, how can he not be?” She explains simply, smiling down at the boys. With the touch of a mother, she brushes her thumb across the boy’s flushed cheek. She wants to run her fingers through his golden hair because that clearly helped when Combeferre did it but his friend has a hand hooked around the back of Enjolras’ head like he’s trying to keep them as close as possible.    

     The surgeon studies the way their hands are molded together, how the boy’s glasses shift from the way he’s sleeping on the bed, the awkward bend of his spine. “We should take his glasses off.” She all but demands before going back to trying to rid the boy of the infection destroying him.   

     When Combeferre wakes up, the room is empty except for Enjolras. He sits up, his back stiff from the way he had slept, and his glasses are resting next to him, easy to find. After slipping them on with one hand, he leans closer to Enjolras, convinced he’s dead. The hand in his own is lifeless, heavy. There are only two machines still lit up. His chest barely moves. But it moves. It moves and that’s all Combeferre needs to see. There’s a breathing tube threaded down Enjolras’ throat, kept still by thick tape. It’s most likely responsible for that small rise and it’s too familiar to the tube he had to have when first admitted. Combeferre reaches out with a shaking hand to search for his best friend’s pulse. Once he feels the soft jump of his heartbeat, he drops his hand. He can’t handle knowing just how slow it must be if Enjolras isn’t breathing on his own anymore.   

     The door opens softly and over his shoulder, Joly smiles gently. “We’re going to move him to his room.”   

     “To the ICU?” Combeferre assumes.   

     “No. The room he was in before,” whispers Joly.   

     “He’s not breathing on his own.” He states dumbly.   

     “No, not entirely but that’s a side effect from the anesthesia coupled with his fight against the infection.” Joly says softly as he walks into the room. Whether for his benefit or the sleeping patient, Combeferre can’t tell. He doesn’t care. “It’s already improving and we should be able to remove the breathing tube before he even wakes up.”   

     Combeferre runs his hand over his eyes, skewing his glasses. He turns away from Joly and drops to his seat so he can lean on the bed next to Enjolras. Tears cloud his vision but it doesn’t matter because he shuts his eyes. Leaning against Enjolras’ cheek, he sniffs as a cry climbs through his chest. He doesn’t sit up until Joly’s hand settles on his shoulder and he’s forced up. A few nurses have appeared in the room, waiting for Combeferre to move. Joly’s hand doesn’t disappear from his own as the two follow Enjolras to the familiar room still littered with all of Enjolras’ clothes, blankets, sketch books, photographs, and bits and pieces of the last six months of his life. Swallowing his fear, Combeferre finally asks, “Does that mean everything went well?”   

     “So far it seems that way. It’ll be a few days before we know if the infection has been completely removed.” Joly wraps his arm around his friends’ shoulders, bringing him close and forcing him to bend due to the height difference. His voice is light and hopeful, so far from the cautious foreboding of the last week. “Both the surgeon and Larose sound optimistic.”   

     The hug is tight and fierce. Tears stain Joly’s sweater. He only feels comfortable letting him go because Courfeyrac is waiting in the room. They’ll be okay together with Enjolras there, breathing and alive. Joly watches the two friends embrace as if they haven’t seen each other in years, then ensures Enjolras is set up to the proper machines. When he leaves, Courfeyrac is brushing Enjolras’ curls off his forehead and Combeferre is stretching out his back. A few hours later, after sending everyone else home for the first time in four days, he comes back to find them both asleep on Enjolras’ bed. Courfeyrac’s hand is still carded through the blond curls and Combeferre’s grip on Enjolras’ hand looks as if it’s necessary for both their survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for all the amazing comments! I apologize for the inconsistent updates, I've been writing some happier things because it's gotten harder to write this sadder dip in the story. I may post those but they're not finished. Apparently my attention span isn't very good so the comments are great encouragements!!


	35. December 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the surgery.

         The fever lingered for a few days but the oxygen mask lasted a week. It was another week before Enjolras was walking again and even longer for his speech to get back to where it was before the fever. He won’t be able to restart physical therapy until his cast comes off, letting his stamina grow steadily without using up his strength an hour every day. Despite knowing this sets his progress back weeks, if not months, Combeferre is grateful for it because something is still off, still different. Now he seems quicker to tire, quicker to quiet as if the infection is still trying to steal his strength, pulling away his attention, his focus, the simple ability to keep his head up at times. Combeferre sits with him, holds him close, and waits. He waits for Enjolras to win the battle, to gain the energy, to move past whatever it is keeping him from talking, from walking, from eating and smiling. It can be a few hours or days at a time. There’s no telling how long it will last and, because they don’t know the cause, there’s no true solution.

     The only explanation from the doctors is, “Some days are harder.”’

     Combeferre doesn’t like that excuse but it’s easier for him to take than some. He will happily sit silently with Enjolras for hours on a bench and watch the slow activity of the hospital. He can wait for the despondent, glassy look in his best friend’s eyes to fade back to something recognizable. He’ll gently force him up for short walks or encourage him to eat. He'll happily crawl up next to him when Enjolras pulls at his sweater, needing a place to hide or to have the physical support surrounding him. As long as Enjolras' hand continues to squeeze his own, Combeferre knows everything will be fine. It’s just a matter of letting the minutes pass and making sure Enjolras know he’s there when they do.

     However, Courfeyrac hasn’t decided to settle with that comfort. The strange, quiet mood, the odd, pensive behavior that yields nothing more than a confused rebound some time later leaves Courfeyrac desperate to fix it. It leaves him antsy and nervous with determined, well thought out actions. He’ll talk to Enjolras for hours, tell him this story and that, repeating joke after joke, sing and dance, doing everything shy of begging for a response. On a few occasions when it lasted longer than normal, he did beg.

     To everyone’s surprise, especially the doctors, it works. Not all the time but more often than not Courfeyrac can get anywhere from a twitch of a smile to a full laugh. Enjolras will still reach for Combeferre but he watches Courfeyrac. With the delightful voice, the loud laugh, the gentle way Courfeyrac has of entertaining his best friend, he frequently helps push Enjolras out of the funk faster than just letting it run it’s course.

     Occasionally, Grantaire can get the same response or sometimes Marius. Where it brightens the artists face, it’s more situational for Marius than his actual intentions and it earns him the same amused head shake Enjolras has always given him. Those flashes bring a sad smile to the faces in the room. It’s not enough to see those pieces of that life anymore. They’re common, and gratefully so, but too often now it follows a confused question or a frustrated noise, a restless shift or a broken statement that reminds them all of just how far the damage has reached. It’s more settling to see the nose crinkling smile than the confident grin that was common before the accident.

      As hard as it is, Combeferre has started to let go of the friend he knew. The expectations and assumptions that he'd look for is not what he's going to get now. Not only does it leave him with a guilty, hollow feeling in his chest but it's not fair to Enjolras. He can't wait for the pieces to connect anymore, only try not to be surprised when they randomly do and let go of the hope that this is the moment everything gets easier. The only way Enjolras leads now is pacing their speed on walks or setting the schedule for when he sleeps. Combeferre is forced into the leadership position that he had watched Enjolras succeed in for years. It's also the position that landed him here, Combeferre thinks bitterly, and one that he could have prevented. He forces the thought away because now he, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac are trekking down a unknown life, hand in hand, on the same plain. He wishes it wasn't true but there is only so much wishing can bring. Wishing will do nothing to help Enjolras.

     Today is one of his brighter days, the times where he smiles more, talks more, fights more. He's halfway through one of the first few speech lessons after the surgery. Combeferre's sitting at the small round table between Enjolras and Valjean, pleasantly surprised at how well it's been going. The first lesson Enjolras barely said ten words and the second one he begged to sit on the couch, then quickly fell asleep. This time he's been rather active, energetic and almost completely involved in the conversation despite his fleeting attention. For the last minute and a half he's been staring out the window over his shoulder, watching the snow fall. It’s the longest they’ve lost his focus. Combeferre glances anxiously to the speech pathologist, hoping for a signal as to what he’s supposed to do. Does he step in and grab Enjolras’ attention or does he stay back and let his friend’s mind drift? Once the doctor speaks, he realizes the kindhearted man was allowing Enjolras the short time to himself.

     “Enjolras,” calls Valjean gently. The man was patiently waiting, head tilted to the side and smile warm. Enjolras turns back and knits his brow, as if forgetting they were here. He looks to Combeferre and smiles, suddenly joyous at finding his friend, before looking back to the doctor. “Are you ready for the next sheet?”

     After a quick look to Combeferre, Enjolras straightens in his seat and mimics the nod his friend gave him. He takes the sheet Valjean hands to him with a sigh. The laminated white paper is dotted with rows of colorful words. The colors of the words don’t match the name of the colors written. Enjolras narrows his eyes at the sheet, purses his lips. Coming up blank, which Valjean was waiting for, Enjolras glances up to the doctor. Because he’s given no explanation, he’s forced to ask. “What to do?”

     “What I’d like you to do is tell me the color of the word.” Valjean tells him gently. Enjolras manages to watch nearly every word he says until the end where he glances down to the sheet. “Don’t just read the word,” adds Valjean. “Focus on naming the color instead.”

     The blond nods shortly, then puts on his glasses and leans over the paper. Valjean frowns. Since he’s only recalling the color there’s no need for him to need his glasses. Where his reading comprehension is far more impressive than they ever thought it would be, it’s not what he needs to work on. Both Larose and Valjean are surprised by his ability to understand words and Combeferre and his friends are grateful that at least he’s maintained that. Spirits sky rocket when he can understand Grantaire’s comics but plummet when he can’t explain what they’re about. Looking down at the paper, Enjolras bites his bottom lip as he concentrates. With his left hand, he points at the word as he recites, “Red. Green. Blue. White.”

     Combeferre looks to the speech pathologist without moving his head, knowing that if he reacts Enjolras could catch it. He doesn’t say anything about Enjolras doing the exact thing Valjean told him not to do. Reading is always his fall back when he stops listening to what’s being explained. Different expectations, he reminds himself. It still sends a stab of pain down his chest filled with guilt and disappointment. If only he had stayed in the right spot, if only Enjolras had heard him, if only that cop let him climb down the fucking statue first. Combeferre fears the threat of tears because Enjolras would be at home, working on this or that. He would be taking his morning runs and rushing off to work, laughing at the Musain or smiling at his friends drunken antics at the Corinth. He could be properly dating Grantaire instead of just  _hanging around_ with him. He wouldn’t be scratching his head at a simple worksheet a seven year old could do.

     Valjean calmly puts his hand on top of Enjolras’ to stop the boy’s steady reading as he reaches the third line. When Enjolras looks up, the man smiles. It’s small, slightly restrained in the way he has of doing when he needs to write something down and yet he manages to be encouraging all the same. “Tell me the color, not the word.”

     “The word.” Enjolras repeats.

     “No. The color.”

     Pointing to the first word, Enjolras says, “Red.”

     “Blue. The color, Enjolras. Not the word. What you see, not what you read.”

     A confused grimace pulls across Enjolras’ face but he searches the page and points at another blue word. Instead of green, he cautiously says, “Blue.”

     “That’s right. Good job,” praises Valjean. He points to the next word. “And this one?”

     After a moment of studying the word, Enjolras looks up to him. “Not blue.”

     “You’re right, it’s not blue.” That doesn’t surprise Valjean. Enjolras knows the words. He knows the colors. It’s coming up with the words for the colors where he has the problems.

     “Not green.” 

     “It’s not green. What’s the color?”   

     Enjolras’ bottom lip starts to tremble as he fails to find the word. He glances up to Combeferre, tears sitting at the bottom of his eyes. Quickly, he turns away before he can see the quiet disappointment on his friend’s face. Enjolras shakes his head. “I don’t.” He just manages to get out. “I don’t. I want. I don’t want to do. Anymore.” Looking up to Valjean, he adds, “Please?”

     “You want to be done?”

     “Yes. Please? Wanna go outside.”

     “Run through this with me twice, then we can take a break. Deal?”

     He nods, scooting up in his seat to get it over with. Valjean reads through the first row, saying the color instead of the word. Enjolras repeats it steadily, then finds another word for each color. “Done?” He asks hopefully.

     Valjean smiles broadly. “Yes. For now. We’ll meet again for another half hour this afternoon, okay?”

     “Okay.”

    “Have a nice walk, Enjolras. I’ll see you later.”

     “See you later.” Enjolras repeats with a short wave. He turns to his friend, who’s smiling softly at him. Quietly, in a cautious voice, he asks, “Going home soon?”

     “Soon,” promises Combeferre. The certainty in his voice comes off with enough confidence to break a smile across Enjolras’ face. It’s small but lingers on his face until Combeferre adds, “Mid-January. That’s what Larose promised me.”

     Enjolras’ smile falls, then his face into a deep frown as he tries to concentrate. It’s the same look he gets when he’s trying to find the right word. He glances over his shoulder to the window, then back to Combeferre. “What month, Ferre?”

     Combeferre’s breath catches in his throat but he steels himself long enough to answer. It’s not the first time Enjolras has forgotten things, especially something relating to time but they have been talking about Christmas for the past week and he told Larose the correct date yesterday during the doctor’s visit. There are patterns that Combeferre is starting to pick up on. Patterns for when certain things Enjolras does or can’t do start to lead to other difficulties and stresses. The quicker Enjolras loses things, the hard and longer his odd periods are. Combeferre reaches out to cup his hand around his best friend’s neck and smiles. “It’s December, E.”

     “It’s Monday,” Enjolras says quickly, nodding reassuringly to Combeferre despite his sudden doubt. “I know. Yesterday, everyone was here. Now, just you. Cosette and Jol. Valjean, too. So it’s Monday. Yesterday Sunday. Right?”

     “Right but Éponine’s here, too.” Combeferre reminds him gently. He pulls his friend close to plant a kiss on his forehead, then gets up to find the right layers for Enjolras to wear. If he wants to go outside it’ll have to be with several layers and a blanket, which he won’t like but he’ll deal with it if he really wants to be outside. Digging through the small dresser is the perfect distraction. Different expectations, Combeferre reminds himself as something that feels awfully close to dread builds in his chest when he looks over to his best friend.  

     Enjolras has dropped his gaze in thought, trying to find the memory of Éponine not three hours old yet. He’s biting fiercely on is lip, focusing intensely on the edge of the table before glancing up to Combeferre. “Ponine’s here?”

     “She brought us breakfast.” Combeferre sits back on his heels with a thermal shirt and a warm sweater in his hands.

     “Oh. Yeah.” Lines pinch between his eyes, fear catching his own breath as he tries to remember.

     “You really liked the yogurt, remember?”

     “Yeah.” Enjolras nods. He pushes himself out of the chair to stand by the window. “It was good.”

     They had bagels. Combeferre forces himself to take steady breaths as he turns to pull out the right clothes while Enjolras does the same, leaning his forehead against the cold glass. December, Enjolras reminds himself. It’s snowing because it’s December. December means Christmas. Is that soon? Was it yesterday? No. Yesterday was Sunday because today is Monday. Everyone was here but he would have known if it was something special. Right? If he doesn’t remember Éponine or breakfast what else is he forgetting? Who else is he forgetting? He doesn’t realize he’s gnawing at the inside of his cheek or scratching at the scar on his neck because he’s too distracted trying to remember when he first got here, how long he’s supposed to stay here, when the fuck he’s allowed to go home. When he gets home, it’ll be easier. It’ll be better.

     An arm is suddenly around his shoulders, bringing him close to a reliable weight. Combeferre rests his chin on top of Enjolras’ head after a forceful kiss. “Let’s go outside, okay?”

     Enjolras pushes himself free to stare at Combeferre because he has to know. His emotions are bubbling under his fingertips and against his lungs, making it harder to turn his thoughts into words. He tries again and again but ends up dropping his head to Combeferre’s shoulder and curling into him. Combeferre is quick to wrap his arms around his friend again, grateful he’s able to give him that comfort. It’s another several minutes before Enjolras steps back. There are tears trailing down his cheeks, a steady stream from the corner of his eyes and dropping off his chin. As he signs, there’s an urgency behind his question.  _Christmas? When’s Christmas?_

     “Five days. It’s in five days, E. You didn’t miss it.” He tells him with a warm smile, trying to find the humor in his concern and not the fear.

     Enjolras doesn’t look as relieved as Combeferre had expected him to be. It sends a pit of cold apprehension to the bottom of his stomach. The blond still looks like he’s trying to think through something, working through the fractured pieces of his mind. The determination doesn’t feel like it’ll lead to a happy conclusion. “Head. Head injury, right? Why I’m here, Ferre?” He taps his temple, then runs a finger along the scar on his forehead above his eyebrow and the second one following his cheekbone. “Two. Two broken. Right, Ferre?”

     “Right.” Combeferre confirms with a small smile. It’s getting harder to keep it calm and easy. He has a feeling of what’s coming, what’s building and he suddenly wishes Courfeyrac was here because he always handles this better.

     “Why? No. No why.” He turns to frantically grab his ring of notecards from his nightstand. After flipping awkwardly through a few with only his left hand, he finds the card he’s looking for.  _How?_ it reads, followed by a short definition and example on the back. Showing Combeferre the card, he asks, “How, Ferre? Car? Everyone okay? You? You drive. Are you okay?”

     “It wasn’t a car accident.” His friend tells him. He cups his palm around Enjolras’ neck again, smiling softly at him as his growing fear shifts strangely to appreciation in the familiar concern Enjolras is showing for his friends. Of course his main worry is his friend’s wellbeing. “We’re all okay. Everyone is fine. Healthy and happy.”

     “How, Ferre?”  

    “You fell.” He traces the scar across Enjolras’ cheek, staring into the bright blue eyes to push away the images of splintered bone and the slow drag of fingers against stone steps. “You fell during a protest.”

     The blue eyes drop in thought again. Silent words pass his mouth as he tries to match what he wants to say with the sounds. “Will I?” He shakes his head, then flips through the cards again until he finds the one he’s looking for. “Will I be? Be better?”

     Combeferre wipes a tear away with the pad of his thumb, not answering him. “I’m really glad you’re here.” He tells his best friend softly, as if quietly falling on that conclusion above every thing else. The emotion is steady in his voice, keeping it from cracking only with the deep truth of the statement. “I’m grateful. Indebted to whatever force that’s responsible for keeping you with me.” Tears of his own fall, silent and strangely strong. “Be it medicine, doctors, or some deity up in the clouds, I am forever in their debt. You’re not allowed to leave me. Okay? Don’t leave me.”

     The sudden change in tone, from soft awe to fierce demands frightens Enjolras. He did well enough following his friend’s speech, understanding that Combeferre is angry at him for getting into all of this trouble, scared for almost losing him. The words don’t leave Enjolras feeling guilty but suddenly overwhelmed by just how bad this must be. How severely did he fuck up, Enjolras wonders. Combeferre pulls him close to kiss his forehead, forceful enough to pull him away from the growing panic. They both close their eyes, squeezing them shut and focusing on the simple, unbelievably lucky fact that the other is here, within reach and alive.

     When Combeferre parts, he stares fiercely at his best friend. “Don’t leave me.” He repeats. “I will always be at your side but you have to promise me you’ll be by mine, okay? Please? Please promise me, Enjolras.”

     “Promise, Ferre.” Enjolras says quietly. “Here. I’m here.”

     Combeferre laughs through the new wave of tears, looking and feeling slightly manic in his relief. He kisses Enjolras again, then bends a little to keep important eye contact. “I love you and I’m here for you. It doesn’t matter if you forget everything else, if you remember that then we’ll be fine.”

     “Love you too, Ferre.” Enjolras manages to say back. “Here. Here, Ferre.”

     “Good. Now let’s go outside.”

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  


     Éponine is waiting in the break room with Joly, Cosette, and Grantaire. The artist is bent over his sketchbook, shading the last bit of Dante’s ear and completely oblivious to the conversation around him. The elaborate scene under his pen spreads across nine panels capturing the kitten’s determined mission to get to the top of the fridge where Grantaire keeps the treats. Having seen the impressive amount of time Enjolras can spend looking through the sketchbooks, Valjean approached him last week, asking for help in keeping Enjolras’ attention during the lessons. Grantaire’s job is to create settings, scenes, or situations that Enjolras will be asked to explain. The one of Dante sneaking around for extra treats is the last of five he promised to have done by tomorrow. Two are of their friends and their latest antics while the other two are of Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras’ hijinks in Paris. Jehan helped him with those story lines and has several more already written out if the new tactic proves successful.

     He’s completely absorbed in the white and gray stripes of Dante’s paws, in making sure the apartment looks exactly like Enjolras’, in getting the way Courfeyrac sleeps sprawled out on his favorite armchair just right, matching the colors of Combeferre’s polka dotted apron he wears when he cooks. Grantaire is too worried about the details of Enjolras sitting on the counter with a book in his hands but watching his friend stirring something with slipping glasses and picking at the fraying cloth of his cast he can’t help but fiddle with. It takes a firm kick to his shin to get him to look up. Éponine jerks her head towards the door where Combeferre is standing behind Enjolras in the wheelchair. Quickly and completely unsuspiciously, Grantaire snaps the sketchpad closed, then lies on top of it.

     “We’re going to go outside.” Combeferre is saying. Grantaire isn’t listening to him. Instead, he’s smiling at Enjolras who is craning his head to see what’s hiding under Grantaire’s arms. Valjean never said not to mention it or show Enjolras before the lesson but Courfeyrac had convinced Grantaire it’s best kept as a secret.

     “What a surprise!” Courfeyrac had shouted with enough enthusiasm to chase away the chill of the hospital. If he got anymore excited, he could possibly create a puppy out of thin air. “To be sitting in one of his frustrating speech lessons, then be passed that! Oh, he’s going to love it.”

     Agreeing with him, Grantaire tried to keep it a secret. Which gets increasingly more difficult to do when Enjolras suddenly asks, “What’s that?”

     “It’s nothing.” He tries to brush it off but the conversation had stopped around them. Combeferre is watching Enjolras speak with a narrowed look and Éponine is smirking at Grantaire because she knows how his chest constricts just the same way it did before the accident when Enjolras looked at him, talked to him, smiled at him. Joly had disappeared for some reason Grantaire missed while Cosette watches with her chin in her hands and an amused smile. He's so glad everyone finds his inability to act like anything more than a giddy teenager when around Enjolras so entertaining. Before Grantaire can ask a question to distract Enjolras, the blond is asking again.

     “A drawing?” He tries to wheel himself closer but with only one hand, he ends up spinning himself around. With a short huff of anger, he pushes himself up and walks over to sit next to the artist. “Can I see?”

     “It’s not done yet.”

     “So?”

     “I want to surprise you.”

     “See it now?” Enjolras asks hopefully. He doesn’t reach out for the book but he scans the colors Grantaire’s using and the streaks staining his hands as if they can give him a glimpse of what he’s doing.

     The artist shakes his head, trying to bite back his smile to something more normal. “Can I show you when it's done?”

     “When it’s done?”

     “Yeah.”

     Enjolras shakes his head, furrowing his brow. “No. No, it’s done. When it’s done?”

     “He’s asking when you’ll be done,” supplies Combeferre quietly.

     “Oh.” The artist turns back to Enjolras with a smirk. Raising his eyebrow, he asks, “Can you wait until Christmas?”

     Enjolras studies his face for a moment, his smile slowly growing uncertain before falling all together. He looks to Combeferre, then around the room at Éponine and Cosette. Nervously, he drops his gaze to the red cast and starts picking at some of the fraying strings. There are tears in his eyes when he asks, “When?”

     “It’s only five days away.” Grantaire’s too focused on the blond to see Combeferre turn around but Éponine watches him carefully. The man sucks in a deep breath and squeezes his eyes tight against tears, his chest sinking under the disappointment. Enjolras briefly looks up, but almost immediately drops his gaze back to his cast. It takes Combeferre several deep breaths before he’s confident enough to turn back to Enjolras and still his smile is strained. Grantaire is still talking, reassuring Enjolras he’ll be glad he waited. He gets a twitch of a smile but Enjolras’ eyes never leave Grantaire’s face where he stares intently, watching the excited words instead of listening to them.

     When Enjolras agrees to wait, Combeferre can guarantee he doesn’t have any idea what he’s waiting for. Grantaire stays inside to finish the drawing while Éponine walks next to her boyfriend on the way downstairs. They quietly sit outside under the concrete cover, watching cars and ambulances roll up every few minutes. Enjolras sits snuggly in his wheelchair, the thick knit blanket Jehan made for him tucked around his legs, while Combeferre sits on the edge of the bench, as close to him as possible, with his hand in Éponine's. It’s frigid outside and dark with the sun behind clouds. Combeferre readjusts Enjolras’ scarf, checks his neck and ears and nose and fingers every three minutes, searching for any cold spots or feverish points. Enjolras let's him, only moving away from the touch once when Combeferre's hands lingered for too long on his cold cheeks and he grew nervous about having to go inside. Before Combeferre could say anything, adjust his scarf or pull down his hat, Courfeyrac walks up with a tray of coffees and a hot chocolate for Enjolras, a grateful distraction.

     The blond ignores his once he realizes it's not coffee and asks to take a walk instead. Courfeyrac is quick to jump up at the same time Combeferre says no.

     “He's not wearing his boots.” He explains, worried about the red nose and each breath he can see escaping Enjolras. It's too cold. They shouldn't have come outside and they definitely shouldn't have stayed. He hasn’t been walking in his heavy winter boots and there’s no way his sneakers are snow proof. Éponine squeezes his hand, warning him that he's worrying needlessly. Combeferre shakes his head because Courfeyrac will do anything to get Enjolras to smile. Like going for a walk in four inches of snow when they should be going inside because it's too damn cold to be safe. Silently responding, he let's go of her hand.

     “I'll bring these home and toss them in the dryer.” Courfeyrac solves as he helps Enjolras out of the chair.

     “We've been out for a long time.”

     “Moving will warm him up.” Courfeyrac counters easily.

     “He's tired already.”

     “That's great.”

     Combeferre glares at him. “How is that great?”

     “This will wear him out even more and he sleep really well.” Courfeyrac slips his arm through Enjolras' as the blond tests the frozen ground in his sneakers. “Come on, Ferre.” He pleads quietly with a small smile. “He wants to see the lights. You know how much he loves Christmas lights. I won't let him fall and we won't be out too long. One lap. That's all.”

     Unable to argue, Combeferre only falls back on the bench and glares at their backs. He won't keep them from going but he's not going to encourage it when he doesn’t agree. Enjolras is too tired, too distracted, too cold. It's been a long day and he still has the second half of his speech lesson after lunch. Courfeyrac's free arm gestures wildly in the start of a dramatic story. Enjolras watches his shoes trudge slowly through the snow until his friend points out the elaborately decorated buildings across the street. Without watching his feet, Enjolras slips on a patch of ice. Combeferre jumps up from the bench only to find Éponine standing in front of him.

     “He's fine.” She says without looking, knowing Courfeyrac's steady hand will keep him from the ground. Even if he doesn't and they both slip to the snow, it'll probably bring a fit of laughter from the boys. “He's fine, Ferre. Courfeyrac's right there.”

     She wraps her hands around his arm and pulls him back down to the bench. Only once the other two are out of sight does he relax into her touch. Quietly, he announces, “He's spiraling.”

     Éponine frowns, glancing to where the two have turned the corner. “He's talking, though. And moving. He was even kind of flirting with Grantaire a little.”

     “He won't be by Christmas.” The man closes his eyes, shaking his head in sad, defeated frustration. “Meaning he probably won't remember it.”

     “He's talking and wanting to move.” Éponine defends. “Give him more credit, Ferre. Maybe he’s just sad he has to stay in the hospital.”

     “This isn't about his capabilities.” He snaps. “I had literally just told him Christmas was at the end of the week. He wasn't listening to Valjean, forgot what he had for breakfast, and got confused as to why he couldn't have coffee. It's been six months since he could have coffee and never once had he been confused by that. Only annoyed. He's spirally and that means he won't remember Christmas in the same way he doesn’t remember Lamarque’s visit last week or Thanksgiving.”

     Éponine leans against his arm, biting back her smile when he shifts to wrap it around her shoulders. Now is not the time to get giddy about her adorable boyfriend because her adorable boyfriend is growing more upset with each passing second that Enjolras isn't back yet. They've both done that walk with Enjolras and it can vary from five to twenty-five minutes depending on his energy level. In an hope to ease her boyfriend's concerns, she determinedly offers, “We'll take a lot of pictures for him.”

     The snort of laughter surprises her until she looks up to see the tears slipping down his cheeks. She hadn’t realized he was still crying. “If that asshole just let him climb down.” Combeferre shakes his head, his smile still bitter in the disbelief at how easy this all could have been avoided. “He wasn't armed. He wasn't encouraging the violence.”

     “What good does that train of thought do?”

     Combeferre doesn't respond. He's too far in his regret to hear her logic. “If I was where I was supposed to be, I could have stopped him. I could have kept that asshole from climbing up.” As he connects the pieces, his breathing suddenly picks up and he stumbles up to his feet. The movement is so quick, Éponine almost falls to the side because she has no time to react. “I bet he knew! I bet he knew that's where the cops best chances of getting through was. The crowd was in front of him and the stores were blocking the sides.”

     “He wouldn't have put you in the line between him and the cops.”

     “No, but remember Bahorel was supposed to be there and I was supposed to be to the left. Right before E climbed up we shifted because I had a better sightline of you if things went south.” Combeferre pushes his fingers through his hair, knocking his hat to the ground. His shoulders bend under the weight of the realization. “He knew. He knew and when I moved he had no one watching his back.”

     The panic attack quickly builds until it’s cut off completely by a sharp right hook. In shock, Combeferre grabs his throbbing shoulder and looks up to his glaring girlfriend. “Ow.” He says, slow and sharp. “What the fuck?”

     “What the fuck good does that kind of thinking do?” She repeats louder. “Let's try it. Maybe you should have stayed where you were. Maybe Bahorel and Bossuet should have done a better job watching the allies. Maybe Grantaire should have been another body by the speaker. Maybe the asshole’s mother should have taught him to use his words first. Maybe Enjolras shouldn't have climbed up the god damn statue because I don't recall that being in the god damn plan!” She's breathless after the rant and forces herself to suck in a deep breath of air, filling her chest and calming her down. She stands up a little straighter, softens her face and her voice as the rising temper quickly fades. “Has anything changed?” She asks quietly. Her boyfriend stares at her, torn between anger and horror. “I know how hard it's got to be to sit here and not be able to do anything. I know you feel truly, completely at a loss but with every second you spend regretting what you should have done six months ago, you’re not only missing what's happening now but you're leaving Enjolras alone as you do it.”

     Combeferre stares at her for a long minute before dropping his gaze to the sidewalk and slowly nodding. “You're right.” He finally says. “I'm sorry.”

     “I'm sorry we can't do more to help. I’m sorry we can’t go back and fix this. And I'm sorry I punched you.” She wraps her arms around his waist and leans into the strong hug. “I love you.”

     She manages to get him talking about something far off topic and by the time Enjolras and Courfeyrac come back, he even laughed a few times. On the way back to the room, Courfeyrac defends his claim of the best Christmas movie ever made as Combeferre intertwines his fingers with Éponine’s in an apology until she parts to find Grantaire. Enjolras doesn’t say anything. His only involvement in the conversation is the occasional nod when prompted by Courfeyrac. He doesn’t stand up once in the room, not until the irishman offers him his hand, a silent cue as to what Enjolras is to do next. Courfeyrac watches his friend sink into the couch cushions before turning to Combeferre.

     “I think I'm going to ask for the rest of the week off work.” He says softly while he folds up the chair. Courfeyrac stays almost every night now but is usually gone in the morning to cram in as much work as he can before coming back right before lunch. If he’s staying, that means he's noticed the shift in Enjolras as well.

     Combeferre's chest sinks under the discouraged weight of being right. He nods for several seconds before simply walking out the door as his control quickly fades. Enjolras watches him leave, then blinks at Courfeyrac’s forced smile. When he doesn't come back right away, he gets up to follow. After seeing Combeferre sinking down the hallway wall with his glasses tossed aside so he can press his palms against his unstoppable tears, Courfeyrac tries to keep Enjolras inside the room.

     His face gives away too much and the blond walks out to see Combeferre sobbing on the floor. Courfeyrac stands there and watches, wanting to comfort his one friend but wary of the other’s response. He watches as Enjolras stares at Combeferre, ready to jump in as soon as he comes up with something to do, someway to fix this, to make Enjolras smile and Combeferre laugh because when was the last time he heard Combeferre laugh? The failure to recall the once familiar sounds brings tears of his own.

     Enjolras slowly moves to the other side of Combeferre and sits next to him. Combeferre looks up and, realizing who it is, he curses brokenly through his cries. Before he can apologize or come up with an excuse, Enjolras is wrapping his good arm around his shoulders. The shock sparks a new wave of emotion from Combeferre as he curls into the embrace. A bawling, blubbering mess, Combeferre leaves stains on Enjolras’ sweater. Courfeyrac sits down next to Combeferre, one hand on his back and the other on Enjolras’.

     They sit in silence for a long time. Combeferre mourns for the life his friend once had, Courfeyrac repeatedly reminds himself Enjolras is alive, and Enjolras clenches his jaw and pretends to be brave against the struggles he can’t remember he faces.


	36. December 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the great comments!!! 
> 
> I am so sorry that I have only continued to get worse at updating! I promise the next two chapters are mostly written so it should be quicker.

     It was Valjean’s idea to use the break room. They all fit in Enjolras’ room but it’s snug at best and he’s often more active once out and moving. Everyone pitched in, everyone had their own jobs. Within a week there was garland and fairy lights strung around the room, boxes of treats filling the space with sweet smells, a small Christmas tree neatly tucked under the window with all of their secret santa gifts wrapped to varying degrees of expertise. There was the neat, sparkly paper from Cosette, the elegantly colored brown paper from Grantaire, and the bow sitting on top of a plastic bag from Bahorel. It wasn’t much different than the Christmas Eve party they usually have at Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac’s apartment. Like most things in the last six months, they have simply moved and adjusted to accommodate Enjolras. It was ironic then, Grantaire would point out, that the only thing missing was Enjolras.    

     Down the hall, Courfeyrac sticks his head out of the door to give Jehan the  _one minute_ sign with his index finger up. After a look back in the room, he turns to his boyfriend and shrugs, showing him five minutes instead. The irishman’s chest is filled with a complicated mix of anxiety and excitement. It's Christmas! But last night was as difficult as the night before with Enjolras waking up in a panic every few hours. Nightmares, the nurse explained and because Enjolras isn’t talking right now it’s their best guess. It makes sense, Courfeyrac thinks, in the way Enjolras startled awake, clinging to him with trembling hands, even screaming once as tears ran down his cheeks.    

     Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre struggled to fall asleep as they were just waiting for Enjolras’ frightened response to whatever he saw when he closed his eyes. They’re exhausted, annoyed, angry. Even the effort it’s taken just to get Enjolras to sit up feels draining and the injustice of the situation grows with each difficult task. You couldn’t tell by watching him but Combeferre is painfully bitter about this new development. When he’s not around Enjolras, he’s always frowning. Either deep in thought or battle with his own control, patience, or guilt. Nothing Courfeyrac can see seems to help him move past the anger. At best, he gets a twitch of a smile. Each day Enjolras doesn’t talk, doesn’t grin, doesn’t laugh, Courfeyrac gets less and less of a response from Combeferre.   

     “Sure, why the fuck not,” was his dry response as he ran a hand over his eyes, displacing his glasses. “What’s next? Allergies? Seizures? Maybe we can get a heads up this time.”   

     “For all we know, he could have been struggling with nightmares since he first woke up.” The nurse explained, hoping that fact could calm their anger. The thought made both boys sick to their stomachs. Courfeyrac had pleaded with Enjolras to tell him what’s wrong but got nothing more than a fleeting glance in response. It seemed enough to Courfeyrac to just be able to hold his friend as he fiercely fought going back to sleep. For hours Combeferre glared at the scars on Enjolras’ face, at the physical evidence that sits like a taunting reminder of how damaged thier friend is. Now there is nothing but soft smiles and encouraging words as Joly explains how to strap on the new arm brace.    

     Wary of how much he’s moving, shifting, and tossing his arm around in these sudden and often violent nightmares, the doctor exchanged the loose sling for a tight brace that pinned his arm against his chest. They also hope it’ll allow them to lessen the pain medication they have him on, thinking that may be a factor in these odd moods. As long as he’s not hurting, Courfeyrac doesn’t care what they do to his arm and as long as Combeferre is convinced it’s the best option, he’s on board.

     “That’s not too tight?” Combeferre is asking as he pulls a little at the wide black strap around Enjolras’ chest. It’s surprisingly soft, lightly padded, and doesn’t seem as obtrusive as Combeferre originally had thought it would be. Of course Enjolras hasn’t been particularly active these last two days but still, Combeferre's happier with the brace than he first was with the idea. The blond shifts on the bed, looking over his shoulder to judge how far back he’d have to move to be lying down again. Combeferre keeps one hand on his shoulder, silently forcing him to stay up. With a warm yet distracted smile, Combeferre shakes his head. “Not right now, E. We have a party for waiting.”   

     “Look, it’s not that tight. I know it looks bad but you can still easy pull it.” Joly says, bringing Combeferre’s attention away. They're both anxious about the new brace, about the holiday, about how he's said all of ten words in the last four days. Each day he says less and eventually he'll stop talking. For how long, there's no telling. Based on how quickly he's losing his words, they'll be lucky to get him speaking in a week. Courfeyrac hates the silent disappointment on Enjolras' face, where the blond drops his gaze and sighs. The quiet sadness is the hardest look to see and, much to Courfeyrac's anger, it's the most common. He bites his lip and watches the careful way Joly pulls off the strap and redoes it so Combeferre can see it done again. Too tight and it'll be constricting around his chest. Too loose and it won't protect his arm. Once the intern leaves it for a long minute, Courfeyrac decides he can crawl onto the bed. When he's not shooed away, Courfeyrac starts reminding Enjolras who he has for secret santa and describing the wicked candles they picked out for Jehan. He knows Enjolras is listening more to his voice than what he’s actually saying but it’s enough to get that soft, almost surprised look from him, like he’s more grateful for his friend’s presence than a response to his words. Joly drops his voice to reassure Combeferre, giving Enjolras the ability to focus only on Courfeyrac. The less distractions, the easier it is. “He’ll tell you if it’s bothering him.”   

     In a hushed whisper, almost too quiet for Joly to hear, Combeferre asks, “Right but how do I know when he’s like this?”   

     “He’ll tell you,” repeats Joly. When Combeferre only raises his eyebrows, Joly takes a moment to find the right way to explain it. “It’s like when a collar is too tight on a dog.”   

     “He’s not an animal.” Combeferre instantly snaps. It’s sudden enough and sharp enough to bring Enjolras up from where he had dropped his forehead against Courfeyrac's shoulder.

     Joly’s only sign of frustration is his face quickly falling neutral, a controlled look he's learned from having to give bad news. “I’m not going to waste time explaining why that was not what I meant because I know that you know I’m talking about the nonverbal cues." He takes a long breath. "For example, if he’s tugging at it or shifting uncomfortably it’s probably bothering him.”

     Nodding, Combeferre runs his hand under his glasses to rub his eyes. He smiles apologetically to his friend. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to snap.”  

     “It’s Christmas.” Joly reminds him with a contemplative sigh. He knows that the holiday is only making this all the hard for Combeferre while it’s making it easier for Courfeyrac, who can find the joy and try to share it with Enjolras. Combeferre can't see past the fact that Enjolras missing it. “I guess I can forgive you.” 

     Combeferre chuckles, dropping his head. “You're too kind."

     Softer, Joly tells him, “Relax. Just because he may not remember it doesn't mean you should miss out on it too.”   

     “It's not fair.”   

     “As are most things about the situation.”   

     “He's not getting any reprieve, you know? On top of the aphasia and these new, horrible nightmares, he gets these stupid moods where he's basically removed from life. I don't understand it.” Combeferre manages to keep his voice light despite the tight threat of tears, the boiling anger in his chest. “He's lost so much and now he loses his friends.”  

     “He's not losing us,” argues Courfeyrac. His arm is around Enjolras’ shoulders, keeping the blond close with Enjolras’ back against his chest. If they stay like that long enough, they’d both contently fall asleep. It’s not much different than how they sleep at night except Courfeyrac would be against the head of the bed as opposed to trying to keep them both upright. 

     “But he is. He's losing time with us.”    

     “That's not the same as losing us.” He tightens his arm around his friend, resting his cheek against Enjolras’ scarred temple.    

     “The result is still the same.”   

     “We're here. With him and for him.”   

     They fall quiet for a moment. Courfeyrac kisses his friend, then brushes a hand through the blond curls. He stops when Enjolras leans further into him, fearing it’ll be too hard to get him back up. Combeferre watches. He reaches out to pull a little at the brace, simply needed an excuse to reassure himself Enjolras is still here with them. “I just wish I knew.” He says softly, still pretending to check the straps. “I just wish I understood because it can't be fun. It can't be fun to not talk, not participate in the world around him.”    

     Enjolras is leaning almost completely on Courfeyrac with his eyes low. The conversation ends in a soft agreement, nothing more than sad nods. It's Courfeyrac who claps his hands suddenly, startling everyone, including Enjolras although he doesn’t jump. His blue eyes do open and briefly studies the room before trying to go back to Courfeyrac’s embrace. “Nope.” Courfeyrac almost pulls him off the bed with him. There’s no subtlety in his movements but Enjolras goes along with it, seemingly without any objection. “It's Christmas! Let's get to the party.”   

     With his arm linked through Enjolras’, they walk down the hall to the brightly decorated break room. Everyone is sitting, waiting. They cheer when Enjolras finally walks in. In a loud, collaborative, “Merry Christmas!”   

     Bossuet clears his throat. Everyone turns to him, smirking. He holds out his arms expectantly. Bahorel rolls his eyes, throwing an empty plastic cup at him. “We already celebrated Chanukah.”

     "Not with Enjolras we haven’t.”  

     “Fine.” Bahorel groans dramatically. He winks at Bossuet but it's unnecessary because there is never a year that passes where they don't celebrate each holiday and there is never a year Bahorel doesn't pretend to be annoyed by it. “Everyone, again. Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah!”

     Enjolras studies the room, his brow knit in the confusion that is all too familiar but he smiles when he sees his friends’ bright faces. For a moment, tears build in his eyes at the sudden emotion but before they fall, Jehan snaps a picture. The flash startles Enjolras, causing him to shut his eyes at the painful light. Jehan apologizes and explains how it was necessary. He gives Enjolras a kiss on the cheek and wraps a warm, hand-knit scarf around his neck. Enjolras fiddles with the soft fabric as Courfeyrac leads him to the large couch where a space has been saved for the two boys. They sit together, similar to how they were in the bedroom but with Courfeyrac leading a lively conversation and Enjolras watching it all with a small smile, his fingers tangled in the scarf. It’s barely an upward turn of the corners of his mouth but it’s brilliant compared to the dreadful nightmares and the silent mornings.    

     Combeferre sat on the arm of the chair before he saw the opportunity and crossed the room to lean against the counter next to Joly. The med student had been recruited by his girlfriend in making coffee, tea, and hot chocolate. As he waits for the coffee machine to finish the next pot, he watches the loud group with the gentle smile, not much bigger than Enjolras’. Their voices are giddy in the time Enjolras’ leaves empty. For several minutes, they watch together. It’s a long enough time for the smile on Enjolras’ face fades and he drops his gaze. Every few minutes he takes a deep breath and looks up, glancing at the faces surrounding him. A faint smile twitches on his face before he drops it again in exchange for staring at his lap.   

     “What do you think this is, Joly?” Combeferre asks softly. The room is small but they're tucked as far away from the center as they can get.   

     “I don't know,” is his immediately response.   

     “But you have an idea.”   

     “Everyone has ideas.” Joly tries to brush him off. “Doesn't mean we're right.”   

     “So what's your thought on it?”   

     “It doesn't matter.”   

     “Yes it does. Please help me understand it. If I do then it's easier for me to help him.”   

     Joly’s quiet for a long moment. He turns to pour several cups of coffee. Without looking up he asks, “Honesty?”   

     “Of course.”   

     “I think he's tired.”   

     “He sleeps significantly more when he’s like this,” informs Combeferre. It’s an unnecessary fact to add. Joly is almost as knowledgeable on Enjolras as the doctors are, if not more so because he’s so emotionally invested.   

     Putting the coffee pot back, he turns to face Combeferre. “No I mean tired. Like in every way possible. From trying to focus through his damaged eye sight to ignoring the incredible pain in his arm, all the walking and effort he puts in just to get out of bed.” He shakes his head like he’s impressed by the list. “Physically, he has to be exhausted at the end of the day. Add on the stress from being here in the hospital because we all know he hates it, the mental exhaustion from his speech lessons, and just trying to understand us but probably failing more than we realize? I think it all adds up. I think he just gets so tired that he can’t do anything but stop fighting it. Checks out for a few days. Reboots, recharges, readjusts.”   

     The blond looks up, then back down. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch until Courfeyrac wraps his arm around his shoulders, keeping him secure. Combeferre can only defend him with a defiant, “Enjolras always fights.”   

     “No he doesn't. He's not now. Look at him. He's tired and he's confused and he's hurting. He wants you or Courfeyrac because he trusts you to keep him safe. He wants situations he can easily understand like the maternity ward or friends. Not MRI’s or speech lessons.” Joly slides a few of the mugs over to Musichetta, smiling briefly at her narrowed gaze. He turns back to Combeferre, who’s still studying Enjolras as if he’s looking for all the evidence. “I don't think we understand how hard it is for him to do the things we assume he's able to accomplish. I think he needs to just stop at times. With two skull fractures, a shattered arm, and the brain damage, I'm actually surprised he's not more like this.” They fall quiet. After a deep breath and a long sip of his own drink, Joly shrugs and finally looks up to Combeferre. It’s only a quick glance before following his friend’s gaze to the quiet blond in the center of the room. “That’s just my opinion. For all we know it could be bouts of depression or some other kind of emotional brain trauma. PTSD even.”   

     “Courfeyrac encourages him through it.” Combeferre nods. It may be only his friend’s opinion but it’s the most trustworthy advice he has. He shakes his head, clenching his jaw in anger. “God. I shouldn't let him do it.”   

     “No. No, god no.” Joly says quickly. It gains the attention of the friends closest to them. Both Marius and Cosette turn back to face Enjolras and the center of the party but are most likely still listening in anyway. Joly continues without a second thought to those who can hear him. “I think he needs it. If he can't maintain the pace we push him through, he could start fighting it the wrong ways. With you, he's allowed the time to rest and with Courfeyrac he's reminded everyone is still here for him.”   

     “So say it is that. What do I do? How do I help?”   

     “Do whatever you're doing now. Just be there for him.”   

     “It doesn't seem like enough. There's got to be more I can do.”   

     “If it were Bossuet or Chetta? I'd like to think of have the incredible patience you have for him. He loves us and he trusts us but you're different. You, just being there, makes him feel more secure than any of us combined and that, Ferre, is probably all he needs. To know we're here. To know you're there.”

     Combeferre smiles at his friend, soft and admirable. “Thanks, Joly.”   

     “I wish I knew more.” They both go back to watching Enjolras. The blond is holding a forgotten mug of hot chocolate, which inevitably tilts and spills across his thigh. He flinches at the sudden heat while Combeferre and Joly jump. It’s Grantaire who takes the cup, then Enjolras’ hand in his own. Someone tosses Courfeyrac a towel and the conversation continues smoothly. Combeferre watches the interaction between his best friend and the scruffy artist, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head as Enjolras squeezes his hand and smiles. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t do anything but he keeps Grantaire’s hand in his own. After an hour, Combeferre steals the seat when Grantaire disappears for a few minutes, most likely to the restroom. When he returns, the artist simply sits next to Éponine on the table with a warm smile and Combeferre settles in next to his best friend. Enjolras reaches for his hand and squeezes, Combeferre laughs irrationally because it's easier than crying and kisses his forehead fiercely. The conversation doesn't slow down, giving them that small moment. Being here for Enjolras is something he can do. He can't imagine being any where else.


	37. January 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this chapter there's a document called the Caregiver Bill of Rights. It's a real thing and I don't want to offend anyone by the reaction it gets in the story because I actually thing it's a pretty important thing for people who are in this kind of situation. Just throwing that out there! You can find the document online, it's pretty short. Anyway, here it is!

         “Can he date?” Combeferre asks all of a sudden. “I mean, like have normal relationships. Because sometimes, when he’s feeling good and remembering everything he seems normal. Well, normal for what we consider normal now, of course. But then other times.” He shakes his head to sum up the frustration that follows the other side of Enjolras’ extreme emotions. “Other times it feels like nothing can make him happy because nothing makes sense. Like right now, for example. When he’s like that, it doesn’t seem like he’s able to handle ordering lunch, yet alone a romantic relationship.”

   Valjean glances up from the files in his hands to see Combeferre looking thoughtfully out the window, eyes narrow and brow furrowed. They were going over future goals for when Enjolras is released in a few weeks. During a lull in the conversion, the boy voiced his concern and successfully ended their previous discussion. It takes a moment for Valjean to gather his thoughts around the question. He hasn’t been asked that before. In fact, it hasn’t even crossed his mind. Dating doesn’t often when it comes to his patients. Before he can say this, Combeferre is talking again. The boy is still looking out the window, as if simply using Valjean to work through his own contradicting opinion.

     “Will people even be interested in a romantic relationship?” Cringing, Combeferre drops his gaze as if the question physically hurts to ask. Looking to Valjean, he says, “He looks the same, you know? The scars are going to be there forever. Larose was pretty clear about that but they should fade significantly. And once he gains the weight back, builds some more muscle, he’ll look good again. Look healthy. It’s when he speaks that it’s clear something’s wrong or when he's in the quiet, exhausted mood like he is now.”

    He pauses, looking expectantly at the doctor for an answer. Valjean takes a deep breath and closes the file. “I think, perhaps, it’s a bigger priority to get him home before we worry about extenuating relationships.”

     Combeferre frowns at the lack of an answer. Not appreciating the postponement of the question, he looks back out the window and adds, “Courfeyrac keeps talking about Grantaire. I know that the guy liked E before the accident and I know he’s a good guy. I trust him and all but I keep thinking, what’s his end game? What if he takes advantage of Enjolras to get what he wants? What he could want and what does he expect, you know? Again, I know Grantaire and I trust him but it’s all I think about now. What if someone takes advantage of him? What if someone uses him? I don’t think I could stop myself from killing the person.”

    As if realizing his confession, Combeferre turns back to Valjean with wide eyes. Valjean sighs, pursing his lips in thought before carefully responding. He folds his hands across the table. “I think you’re underestimating him.”

     The boy rolls his head in exasperation. “Courf keeps saying that. I think it’s bullshit.” He snaps. “You know, I know that Enjolras is smart. He’s just as smart as he was before but now it’s clouded with confusion and misunderstandings.” Scooting up in his seat, he leans across the desk to stare at Valjean as he says, “You can’t give him an either or option because he always picks the last choice simply because it’s the last one he heard. With knowing that, and seeing that happen, how can you say you’d trust anyone one hundred precent with Enjolras?”

     “Enjolras isn’t afraid to vocalize his opinions, Combeferre.” Valjean defends patiently. “He still has to be strapped down when getting a MRI because he fights so hard against it.” Before Combeferre can attempt to refute his evidence, Valjean says, “And besides, he has you and Courfeyrac looking out for him.”

     After a long moment, Combeferre nods. “Yeah. I guess.”

     “Just my personal opinion?” Valjean offers a little quieter. “I’ve seen the way Grantaire looks at Enjolras. It’s the same way Marius looks at my daughter.”

     “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Doc, but Marius is head over heels in love with your daughter.” Combeferre chuckles softly, waiting for the sharp protective anger that rises when anyone gets too close for comfort to his daughter or patients. Instead, he only gets a small smile.

     “I know.” The man says with a clever look.

     Combeferre’s smile falls and he looks back out the window because he can barely get Enjolras to eat most days. If it wasn’t for the calendar they got him, he wouldn’t know what day of the week it is and even then he often forgets it’s there. How in the world could he add on a romantic relationship? How is that fair to anyone? Then Combeferre spirals guiltily because it certainly isn’t fair to deny the kind of love and joy Éponine brings him simply because it’s different or harder or complicated or confusing. He stands up, stretching his back a little. With hopes to get back to his friend, Combeferre asks, “Does he have a lesson tomorrow?”

     “As of right now, yes. However, given he hasn’t talked in two weeks on top of not eating, I doubt we’ll get much out of him.” Valjean smiles at the annoyed eye roll from Combeferre. It seems more desperate than frustrated. The doctor knows just how much patience Combeferre has when Enjolras gets like this and never, impressively enough, does he ever snap at Enjolras. Courfeyrac either. Everything they've done has been for Enjolras. They make sure every raised voice or wall punched is as far from him as possible. They continue to fight, to argue, to yell. At doctors, nurses, and friends, sure, but they maintain a steady tone with Enjolras until they believes the blond is ready to fight back. Valjean has never ceased admiring the boys and their love for Enjolras. It's something he doesn't understand, whatever connection the three have, but he knows it's something unlike anything he's ever seen before. “We’ll see how it goes. We may end up just sitting with him. If that’s the case, it might be best for you and him to sit outside. That seems to be helpful lately.” 

    “Thanks, doc. For everything.”

     “I’m always here for you. No matter what it may be.” He smiles, watching Combeferre carefully as he drops his head to study his shoes instead of leaving. When he looks up again, his brow is pinched in an unpleasant thought.  

    “Grantaire loves him.” Combeferre declares with a frown. “In many ways. In many, good ways. He’s only ever wanted what was best for E. And I think Enjolras likes being around him. Courfeyrac thinks he loves Grantaire. More than just friends kind of way.” To the older man, he asks, “Who am I to question that? Who am I to deny Enjolras that kind of attention, that kind of happiness? It’s not that I don’t think he deserves it. For all that he is and all that he’s been through, if there’s someone who deserves that, it’s him. But it scares me. Terrifies me, even. Why? Why am I afraid of someone being there for him like that?”  

     “It’s understandable, Combeferre. Protective is someone he needs in this new life. A life that both you and he will have to figure out. You'll have to find the right balance of it. When to step in and when to walk away. Speaking of which,” mentions Valjean as he ducks to reach into this bottom desk drawer. “I wanted to give you this.”   

     He hands Combeferre the sheet, regretting it almost immediately. Combeferre is already angry and confused. Then again, there’s no better time to reassure him that these fears and concerns are not only normal but will get worse and harder to deal with than right now when he’s struggling with a rather big issue. If there is backlash, then it will only help him remember this the next time that boiling pit of uselessness grows overwhelming. Valjean is grateful to see that the two boys have fallen into a sort of rhythm when it comes with who is reaching their breaking point and when. There have been no more incidents of Courfeyrac and Combeferre fighting. Instead, they’ve seemed to have molded back together to combine forces in protecting, comforting, helping, and supporting Enjolras. When one boy is angry or frustrated beyond the ability to handle it, the other picks up the weight until they’re over it. It’s a beautiful relationship. Partnership, almost. He’s trying to think of the word he’s heard Joly use to describe it when Combeferre scoffs a little.   

     “What is it?” The boy asks as he reads the bullet points on the paper. Valjean doesn’t answer, knowing he’ll figure it out quickly. After glancing up to the doctor with a disgusted face, Combeferre looks back down and rereads the short few paragraphs. “What the fuck is this?”   

     Valjean answers calmly despite wishing he had brought it up when Courfeyrac was here. And maybe Joly as well. Or Enjolras. “It’s called the Caregiver Bill of Rights. I know it seems silly right now but it’s important for you to remember these things.”   

     “I have the right to take care of myself.” He quotes with a bitter laugh. “To get angry, be depressed, and express other difficult feelings occasionally. What the fuck?”   

     Valjean sighs. “Like I said, I know how it sounds.”   

     “Enjolras doesn’t need a fucking caregiver.”   

     Slightly taken back by the statement, Valjean narrows his eyes and nods slowly. “Yes he does.”   

     “I mean, technically I guess, right now.” Combeferre says as he shakes his head. “For a few weeks. But he’d just be getting out of the hospital. It’s natural for someone to need a little more help. It would have been, what, eight months in the hospital? Anyone would need help after that.”    

     “Combeferre,” calls Valjean gently. The doctor can’t bring himself to fully understand the denial, hoping desperately that he’s misreading the boy’s reaction. Valjean is shocked, almost speechless, at the complete three sixty from questioning Enjolras’ capabilities to maintain a relationship to stating he’ll only need a little help. Combeferre is smart. He’s well researched and involved. There’s no reason he should have missed how big of a life changing event this is and just how much effort this is going to take from everyone involved. “You understand how severe this is. I know you do and I know that you know this doesn’t just go away when he gets out of the hospital. Right?”   

     The boy doesn’t answer him with more than a clenched jaw and a short shake of his head. “Enjolras can read.”   

     “I’m sorry?”   

     “He can read. He can read really well.”   

     “I know that but I’m not sure how that’s relevant to our conversation. Combeferre, this is very serious. I need to know that you understand this. When he's released, he'll rely on you and Courfeyrac for almost everything.”   

     “He can understand what he reads, too.” Combeferre continues. “His comprehension is just the same as it was before the accident as long as he can focus long enough.”   

     “Combeferre-”   

     “I mean, he’s reading easier books but I don’t think it will be long before he’s at the caliber he was before the accident. Which is more difficult than what I usually read.” He adds, looking down to the floor. The room falls quiet and when he looks up, Valjean sees the tears slipping down the young man’s cheeks. “He’s really smart. Always has been. Smarter than me, that’s for damn sure.” Through clenched teeth, he declares, “He doesn’t need a caregiver.”   

     He knows. Valjean’s heart sinks because of course he knows. How painful it must be, to watch his best friend struggle with basic communication skills when he used to start rallies. To know that the simplest tasks are going to be a battle, that tying his shoes is going to take every ounce of his focus and a busy restaurant could steal his ability to order dinner. There’s no reason to force Combeferre to admit it. He’ll do what he has to do to his best ability for Enjolras. Instead, Valjean steps around the desk and pulls him into a tight hug. The boy is stiff at first, then sinks into the strong embrace and sobs.

  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
     Outside the room, Combeferre runs his fingers under his eyes. He takes off his glasses and cleans them with the bottom of his sweater, then wipes his nose with his sleeve just to make sure. After a few deep breaths, a shake of his shoulders, and another attempt to dry his eyes he finally feels the threat of tears fade. There have been so many times he's struggled with the uncontrollable emotions that he's almost surprised to feel what it's like to not be on the edge. Crying, yelling, fighting, it'll do nothing for Enjolras. Once he reminds himself of that, it seems easier. Once he sees Enjolras, the turmoil of desperate emotions are suppressed by simple joy because Enjolras is alive and Enjolras is here, with him. To be there for him, Combeferre can't be crying, yelling, and fighting.

     The room is quiet, which he expected, but Enjolras is awake, which he definitely didn't expect. They went for a long walk that morning and he was falling asleep when Combeferre left to meet with Valjean. His naps have been significantly longer now that the nightmares are almost routine. He couldn't have been asleep longer than an hour, a fraction of what's normal. The blond is looking out the window, a sketchbook in his lap and glasses in his hand, while Courfeyrac leans over a file on the table.   

     “Hey, look who's awake.” Combeferre says with a warm, surprised smile. At the gentle voice, Enjolras looks away from the snowy window. The blond's face lights up as he recognizes his friend. Before crawling onto the bed, Combeferre hands Courfeyrac the  _Caregiver Bill of Rights_. Enjolras closes the sketchbook. When Combeferre signs to ask if he's done looking at it, the blond nods. “Oh. Well that was very responsive.” Combeferre puts the book back on the nightstand, then sits in front of his friend. “Are we talking today?”   

     “He's mad,” explains Courfeyrac without looking up from the offending paper. Enjolras reaches out and taps Combeferre's hand to say hello.   

     “That's great.” Combeferre leans in to kiss Enjolras' forehead. When Enjolras is mad, he fights. “Who pissed you off?”   

     Although he doesn't answer, Enjolras grins widely at him. He leans a little to keep Combeferre's attention when the man glances to Courfeyrac. Combeferre doubts he understood what he was asked but the alertness, the eagerness to participate is something he hasn't seen in Enjolras' eyes for two weeks. The blond taps his hand again and Courfeyrac pushes his chair back in anger. In order to see them both, Combeferre shifts against the railing of the bed. It's also a hopeful attempt to get Courfeyrac to see how involved Enjolras is in the conversation. He's aware enough to panic, knowing something's wrong, but missing too much for them to explain the rather stupid reason to be that upset. A ridiculous piece of advice is a stupid reason to cause panic.   

     Glaring at Combeferre as if he's the one who wrote the paper, Courfeyrac runs his hand across his chin in an effort to control his growing anger. He doesn't see Enjolras right away as he asks, “What the hell is this?”   

     “Who pissed him off?” Combeferre ignores the question. He turns to Enjolras and smiles, trying to reassure or distract him but the blond is staring at Courfeyrac. His gaze is intense as he tries to figure out what's wrong.   

     “What the hell is this?” The irishman repeats louder, leaning towards him and holding out the paper. On the bed, Enjolras shifts nervously. He pulls on Combeferre's hand to ask what he can't say. Courfeyrac's stare flickers briefly to Enjolras, then stays on him. The anger fades and he sighs. He throws the paper to the top of the pile on the table because both he and Combeferre know what's more important. When he smiles at Enjolras, the blond glances between his friends suspiciously before finally relaxing. “The nutritionist came by poking and prodding.”   

     “What did he say?” Combeferre reaches out and tests the black strap around his friend's chest. He's not swatted away but Enjolras still takes his hand and intertwines their fingers in an attempt to stop the attention. Just to see what he'd do, Combeferre reaches out with his other hand. This time Enjolras narrows his gaze at him, then shifts to try to pull away from it. It's an encouraging reaction so Combeferre drops the focus, letting his friend be, and turns back to hear Courfeyrac's answer.   

     “He is moderately yet leaning towards critically underweight,” quotes Courfeyrac.    

     “Jesus.” Combeferre whispers. “Critically underweight? I didn't think he's lost that much.” This time when he reaches out to feel Enjolras' ribs, he gets swatted away. Enjolras does it without letting go of his hold of Combeferre's other hand and with a cautious look, as if worried the action will push his friend away. To reassure him, Combeferre smiles and kisses the hand in his own. It'll take a lot more than being batted away to make him drop his hand. “That can't be healthy. What are we going to do?”   

     “The doc is going to give him some special kind of supplements that are supposed to add weight. They're also going to amp up his food intake and add to whatever cocktail they're giving him through the IV at night.”    

     “But he’s already on supplements,” states Combeferre.   

     “I know.”   

     “He’s given food he just doesn’t eat.”   

     “Yep.”

     Combeferre sighs. He drops his gaze to the bed, then closes his eyes and scratches his forehead. “He’s supposed to be released in two weeks.”   

     “I know.”   

     “Fuck,” snaps Combeferre before he can bite it back. Enjolras squeezes his hand but he turns to Courfeyrac, urgently asking, “Did he say anything about pushing the date back?”   

     “No. Not to me at least. When I asked, he said that it's not quite something worthy of concern just yet. Just yet being his own words. For now, I guess, he’s technically still healthy enough to go home.”   

     “Good.” Combeferre takes a deep breath. He looks to Enjolras and nods, grinning to calm the growing concern on his friend's face. “Good. Right now that's all that matters. We can fatten you up when we get home.”   

     Courfeyrac watches them for a moment, smiling softly, before bringing up the paper that had earlier colored his face red. “That paper is bullshit. They should know we have no problem getting angry.”   

     “I think they mean getting mad at Enjolras.”   

     “Why would we get mad at Enjolras?” He asks with a disbelieving scoff but the slightest hint of fear in his eyes as if it’s a prophecy. Quieter, he says, “That’s just ridiculous.”   

     Combeferre shrugs, wanting nothing more than to forget about the paper. He’s sure it’s helped other people otherwise they wouldn’t have been given it but it only reminds the two friends just how damaged Enjolras is. They don’t need anymore help on that subject. The scars themselves do it well enough and those will never disappear. Looking to Enjolras, he scrunches up his face in fake anger, clenching his teeth like he's going to growl. He fights against a smile that’s gets harder to restrain as Enjolras’ face lights up. “Why aren’t you eating?”   

     He widens his eyes and leans in close to his friend’s face. Enjolras closes the distance with a nose crinkling grin to press their foreheads together. Combeferre laughs, wrapping him up in a fierce hug and kissing the curls that are just starting to get back to the length before the accident. To Courfeyrac he says, “He’s coming out of it.”   

     “About fucking time.” Courfeyrac realizes how sharp it sounds so he adds a short laugh, the words echoing in his head. “It lasted far too long this time.”   

     “If Joly’s right though, maybe it means he’ll be normal for a longer period of time.”   

     Courfeyrac climbs clumsily on the bed to lay his head on Enjolras’ chest, between his two friends. The blond pats his hair as the irishman hums contently. The three don’t fit easily but after enough days spent here, they’ve learned the best ways to make it work. “I can’t wait until we get home and back to our big comfy beds.”   

     “With a real coffee machine and real food.” Combeferre shifts so he’s lying between the bedrail and his two friends. His arm stays around Enjolras’ shoulders, his friend’s head on his shoulder.   

     “We won’t have to wear real pants,” adds Courfeyrac. He keeps his head on Enjolras’ chest, resting in the neat crook of the black brace near his elbow. “Everyone can stay over whenever they want.”   

     “It’s going to be so much nicer.”   

     Shifting to look up at Enjolras, Courfeyrac grins. “I can’t wait until we get you home!”   

     “Home?” Enjolras asks. The other two freeze, mouths parted a little in their shock. It’s been nearly two weeks since their friend has talked. The voice is unfamiliar and yet memorized, foreign and captivating. The fear that he’ll never come back to them that grew with each silent day fades with that one word. He glances between the two, eyes attentive and curious. “Home?”   

     Before they can answer, Courfeyrac scurries up to pepper the side of his face with a dozen kisses, then does it again. Enjolras scrunches up against the onslaught of affection and giggles madly while Combeferre watches, a grin so wide it hurts. It’s a long minute before the Irishman finally stops, pulling back with a giddy smile on his face. As Enjolras tries to catch his breath, he looks eagerly to Combeferre.    

     “Two weeks, Enjolras.” Combeferre tells him. He brushes his hand through Enjolras’ blond curls. “We’ll be home in two weeks.”     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the great comments!! As always, I really appreciate them! Also, I'm looking for a beta (for another story) so if anyone is or knows someone that may be willing to help that would be amazing! Anyway, I have the next chapter half written so I'll update it pretty quickly :)


	38. January 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no excuse I have for how late this update is. I had it written but decided to change point of views, which meant rewriting it and, well, life. So, I'm sorry and will continue to try to be quicker!! 
> 
> Thank you for the amazing comments, I know I'm being repetitive but I don't know if I can really express how much I enjoy them!

         Combeferre wrings his hands together. He studies the room as he paces, eyes bright with excitement despite the dark circles shadowing his face. Enjolras wonders if he has his own matching marks. Every time he closes his eyes, the same nightmare haunts his mind. It's getting to the point where he fights sleep for as long as he possibly can. Most of the time now, Combeferre and Courfeyrac trick him into sleeping. When he wakes up screaming, he's too scared to be angry. He would love for one of them to lie down with him now but he's not exhausted enough to forget about the nightmare. Instead he watches Combeferre with an odd mixture of concern and disinterest, driven from the inability to react. From the best he can tell, Combeferre hasn't slept well in the last week either, if not longer. Lately, he can't remember waking up and seeing his friend asleep on the couch although Enjolras' sense of time isn't exactly linear anymore. He hopes its not a nightmare keeping Combeferre up.

     Enjolras watches his friend. He looks nervous. It makes Enjolras nervous. He thought he was supposed to go home today. The exhaustion is catching up to him, making it harder for him to speak and even harder to understand the conversation around him. The questions that he's desperate to ask don't make it to his lips. So he sits and waits for a cue. A tap on the arm to stand up or a questioning smile asking for some reassurance. He's forever grateful for the adaptability of his best friends. They never push him to speak when his words fade away.

     “Okay, alright.” Combeferre walks towards Éponine. “How cold is it? It's supposed to snow today but I haven't seen any snowflakes yet. Doesn't mean it's not freezing. Do you think he needs another layer?”  

     “The sweater is warm enough, Combeferre.” Her voice sounds reassuring. She's not Courfeyrac but he trusts her to help Combeferre. Éponine has gentle touches, a soft voice, and never bites back a stern response. If something's wrong, she can help. Even if she can't fix whatever is making Combeferre so anxious, she'll be able to comfort him. Enjolras is happy to leave his best friend in her hands. That is, of course, until he gets so tired, so angry, so distressed that he'll reach out for Combeferre for his own comfort. Right now he's aware enough to know that Combeferre needs it more.    

     “Good. Okay.” Combeferre sighs but doesn't relax. He crosses the room twice before turning to Enjolras. “Courfeyrac's getting the car and Marius said the apartment is all ready. We're packed. We're almost sighed out. We can pick up your medications on the way home and maybe grab some food but I'm sure Musichetta's cooking something, right? She said she would. What else? What am I missing?”    

     It's a question, that much he can tell. He can see the eagerness in his best friend's eyes as he waits for Enjolras to respond. But because he didn't know he was supposed to be listening, he wasn't. It takes far too much effort for him to pay attention and the majority of his focus is spent mostly on staying awake because he at least knows he's supposed to do that. Combeferre's waiting, watching him carefully. He's already scared and for whatever reason, Enjolras can't begin to guess. Not responding when he was supposed to can't help so he simply shrugs. It's the best he can offer. His best friend's face falls before he quickly recovers and smiles, nodding his head as if that's what he expected.    

     Enjolras shifts on the bed with the intention of asking what's wrong. The words don't come so he drops his own gaze and bites the inside of his cheek. There are hands suddenly around his neck, gentle and predictable. He doesn't have to look up to know it's Combeferre. As his best friend both checks for a fever and offers a small, quiet comfort, Enjolras leans into the touch and closes his eyes. When he sees the blue uniform he jerks away from what he knows follows. The flinch doesn’t go unnoticed and in a brief reprieve, Combeferre wraps his arms around Enjolras and hugs him tightly. 

     “He's fine, Ferre.” Éponine says gently as she pulls him away from the small examination. Losing the comforting hands is almost enough for Enjolras to reach out for Combeferre again but he's pretty sure he's supposed to go home today. As the other two talk, he climbs off the bed. Combeferre immediately turns to watch him but doesn’t stop the conversation. They speak softly and Enjolras is happy to not listen in. If he's supposed to be involved, Combeferre will tell him.

     “I'm just making sure.” Combeferre explains.  

     “How many times do you need to hear that he's being discharged for you to believe it?” Éponine steps to be in his line of sight, pulling his attention away from how he was watching Enjolras study the calendar on the wall.   

     “It's just, I just.” He shakes his head and drops his gaze for a moment. “I keep waiting for someone to come in and decide that he's no where near healthy enough to go home. That this was all hopeful thinking, you know? Best case scenario. Or to say that someone fucked up the papers and it's actually some guy down the hall that's getting to go home and not us.”   

     As Enjolras passes him, he pats Combeferre’s shoulder in a quiet attempt to put him at ease. Combeferre turns to smile at him, the fear easy to see in the way he watches Enjolras. He can only ignore whatever is scaring his best friend. It's not hard to understand it's something that has to do with him but he can't think of what so he doesn't know how to help. Even if he did, he doubts he'd be able to say the words. For all he knows, Enjolras may not be able to reassure his friend. He doesn't know what day of the week it is so who is he to know how bad things may be. Again, he leaves it to Éponine and sits on the couch to wait because he is supposed to go home today. He's dressed in his warm thermal with thick socks, which means he'll wear his boots. His backpack and duffle bag are sitting next to the door. The date is circled in a bright red. They'll tell him when to start moving again.  

     “He's going home. Tonight, you and him can sleep in your own beds.” Éponine tells Combeferre. Enjolras looks out the window to watch a few snowflakes fall. “Go see if there's anything Joly needs you to sign.”   

     “I should stay here. We're not completely packed yet. He doesn't have shoes or gloves or a hat. Do you think he'll need a scarf? Because his scarf is at the bottom of his bag.” Combeferre starts unzipping the duffle bag and digging through the recently packed clothes. He only stops when his girlfriend pushes him away. “He doesn't have shoes, Ép. He doesn't have shoes on or a scarf. It's freezing outside. He'll need shoes.”   

     “I've got this handled, Combeferre. Go find Joly and ask if there's anything you need to do.” She kisses him, then shoves him out the door. “It may get him home faster so go.”   

     Enjolras looks up when the door closes. Realizing his best friend isn't in the room anymore, he asks, “Ferre?”   

     It's soft, quiet even in the still room. Éponine kneels in front of him to help put his boots on. She smiles, looking almost amused. It's an easier emotion to believe than the fear fueling Combeferre. “He's going to see Joly.”   

     Joly, he repeats to himself. That makes sense. Before asking the most important question, he taps her shoulder for her attention. “Going home?”   

     “Yep. Today.” She pauses tying the first boot to look him in the eye. At this point in his exhaustion, it's almost necessary for him to understand what's being said. “You'll be home in an hour.”   

     “Good.” He nods. They fall quiet. Once his boots are on, she encourages him for a short lap around the room to make sure he's confident walking in them. Combeferre made him walk their laps in his boots the last two weeks so he could get used to moving in them. It was beyond frustrating and Enjolras may have thrown a few fits over it but feeling the weight pulling him down now, he’s terribly grateful for Combeferres’ persistence. Thinking of his always increasing gratitude, he says to Éponine, “Ferre's nervous.”   

     Éponine shakes her head but doesn't look up from where she's refolding the clothes Combeferre had pulled out. “He's just excited.”   

     “No,” snaps Enjolras. The sharpness of his tone brings her attention back to him. He can't be the only one that sees it. “Ferre's nervous. Scared. Why?”   

     She stands up and puts the sweater on the bed so she can help him take off the arm brace. It's too complicated for him to undo with one hand. Especially when he's too tired to pay attention to where he's putting his feet, then it's impossible to work his way out of. It's the reason, he thinks, that they put it on him. Otherwise, he would have already pulled it off. It's constricting and annoying but he usually forgets about it after a few minutes once it’s back on. Éponine shrugs. “He’s anxious, I suppose.”   

     He waits for her to pull the sweater over his head before responding. It makes him feel like a child, when someone has to help him dress, and at times the anger leaves him screaming shirtless. Much to his frustration, there are times he can’t physically do it himself. The full magnitude of his situation creeps in slowly, flooding his vision and crushing his chest. Small moments turn into frightening panic attacks when he realizes just how bad he's fucked up. But right now, Combeferre is scared and the room is quiet enough for him to find the words to the questions he's been needing to ask. At the time, there are more important problems than his own ever growing list. “Because of me?”   

     She's helps him put his broken arm through the sleeve before tightening the strap. Enjolras only flinches a little at the painful twitch of his fingers. He's been off of the IV since he woke up this morning and no one has come by to give him something for the pain. Hopefully it's not too much longer. Éponine speaks and for the moment, it’s enough for him to forget about his arm. “Technically, I suppose.”   

     “Going home.” He bends to keep her attention, frightened that he's missing something important. “Right?”   

     “Yes. Today, you're going home.” She brushes her hand through his curls, taking a moment to reassure him before putting the brace back on. “Is it too tight?”   

     “Breaths.” He ignores her question. It's not the right word but hopefully it's close enough for her to interpret.    

     “Breaths?”   

     “Yes. Ferre.” Enjolras demonstrates with deep breaths. He breathes in through his nose, holds it, then breathes out through his mouth. It's the same way Combeferre tells him to do it when Enjolras gets flustered or anxious or excited. It's the second best way out of a panic attack. A few deep breaths, closed eyes, relaxed hands and suddenly the world is a lot calmer. Enjolras has found that it never quite works as well without Combeferre’s voice encouraging him through it or Courfeyrac's hands running through his hair in that steady way he has of doing.   

     “Oh. Ferre needs to breathe?” She guesses. He nods, grateful it wasn't a difficult track to find his point. Turning back to fold the rest of his clothes, she laughs. “I agree. You should tell him that.”   

     “Say it? Please.”   

     “Deep breaths, Ferre.” She says slowly for him, smiling as he nods his head along the steady rhythm to memorize it.    

     “Deep breaths, Ferre,” repeats Enjolras. Éponine nods with a smile. She leaves him to find the rest of the forgotten pieces around the room. They fall into a comfortable silence. It's familiar and easy. If Courfeyrac isn’t here, she is. He alternates between watching her and watching the snow out the window, repeating the sentence over and over again. When Combeferre gets back, he wants to say it right. Maybe it'll help him relax. Maybe he'll even get him to laugh a little.    

     The door swings open and he snaps his head up to say it but words die on his tongue at the sight of half his friends storming in. Combeferre's with them, but tucked in the back with Joly. The sudden activity outweighs Enjolras' ability to announce the sentence he worked so hard to retain. The loss leaves him disappointed and confused, caught between yelling angrily at Combeferre or scooting back on the bed and out of the center of the action. When his best friend walks up to him, it settles the rising panic. The reliable hand on his arm is just enough to keep him from screaming. That is until he hears the raised voices. Joly doesn't look as frantic as Combeferre does but he's sighing heavily and looking at Combeferre with his head tilted to the side. It's not hard to see he's starting to wear thin of patience. Enjolras looks to Combeferre, hoping for something, but when he doesn't get his friend's attention, he searches the room for Courfeyrac.

     “I just need proof.” Joly is saying in a carefully measured voice.   

     “It's in France, Joly. How the fuck do you expect me to get it?” Combeferre snaps. The room doesn't fall quiet but everyone lowers their voice a level to listen in. Enjolras looks for Éponine. He scoots back a little when he doesn’t find her.   

     “I don't need the actual document. Just the proof of identity. Some form of legal identification.”   

     “Why won’t his license work?”   

     “Because it needs to be federal identification. I need his birth certificate.”   

     “He's not a twelve year old girl. Look at him! What more proof do you need?”   

     “Federal documentation!” The other boy finally yells. “I need some form of documentation they can put in the file for liability reasons. His birth certificate. That's it. That's all I need.”   

     Éponine suddenly steps between them. She smiles briefly at Enjolras and he believes her because it's not placating but apologetic, as if this is just Combeferre and Joly overreacting. Dragging them out to the hall, she says something about how this isn't the right place for this conversation. Enjolras watches them leave, wanting nothing more than to follow and fix whatever is wrong. Instead, he sits on the bed and focuses on the excited voices around him. Bahorel and Feuilly are fighting for the opportunity to tell a story while Jehan continues to jump in to correct someone. Bossuet has a cast on his arm, which Enjolras can't remember if he's supposed to know what happened.    

     The conversation is too fast, too overlapping for Enjolras to follow. As the joy from seeing his friends fades to confusion, because he thought he was going home today, his face falls. Jehan is on the bed next to him, scratching circles on his back. Enjolras looks to him for help but only gets a kiss on his forehead before the other man turns back to the conversation. Defeated, Enjolras knits his brow and drops his gaze. His hand is starting to hurt more and his ears are ringing. A headache is beginning to grow near the scars on his face. The exhaustion is almost painful. He wonders where Courfeyrac and Combeferre are.    

     There's a hand suddenly on his, bringing his gaze up. It's not Combeferre or Courfeyrac. It's not a nurse or a doctor. A smile spreads on his face when he recognizes Grantaire. The other man is quiet, attentive. His eyes don't look away and he doesn't suddenly laugh all sharp and loud. Too much of that laughter is filling the room and the most Enjolras can manage is a tap on Grantaire's hand.    

     "Wanna go for a walk?" Grantaire asks. His voice is low and gravely. Enjolras likes the sound of it. He wants to respond because he knows it was a question but Combeferre storms into the room only to dig through the packed bags and disappear again. Bossuet has a broken arm and Enjolras doesn't know why. Bahorel suddenly punches Feuilly in the arm but the redhead dodges and manages to hit Bahorel in the chest instead. Someone taps his face. Turning back, he sees Grantaire standing in front of him. Enjolras smiles, squeezing the hand in his own. _Wanna walk?_    

     He understands when Grantaire signs the question for a third time. At least third in Enjolras' counting. It could have very well been the tenth time. Whatever number, a bright grin still spreads across Grantaire's face when Enjolras nods eagerly. He helps Enjolras off the bed and Enjolras is grateful for it, feeling unsteady in his boots. The room quiets when his feet hit the floor. Not willing to risk someone taking this opportunity away, Enjolras simply walks out the door. He can hear Grantaire explaining something to the room, then hears footprints running up behind him. When Grantaire catches up, he smiles, slightly out of breath but holding up his heavy peacoat and hat. "Wouldn't want Combeferre to kill me."   

     The tone sounds like a joke so Enjolras smiles. Before they get outside, Grantaire helps him into his jacket and hat. While Grantaire adjusts and readjusts the knit beanie, his brow furrowed with an intense layer of focus as if Enjolras' health requires the hat to be covering his ears entirely, Enjolras finds himself thinking about how much he likes this. How much he likes having Grantaire this close to him. He wishes, not for the first time, that he hadn't fucked up so badly. If he could get rid of this constant blur in his eyes and the ringing in his right ear, if he could remember what day of the week it is, if he could find the words, he could kiss Grantaire.   

     "Alright, well that's as far as it's going to go. You have to tell me if you're cold. Are you ready?" Grantaire smiles at him, all eager and enthusiastic. Enjolras studies his face before dropping his gaze to their boots. His chest constricts under the sudden weight, the sudden pain. He can't kiss Grantaire. He doesn't even know what day of the week it is. "Hey, are you okay?"   

     The concern in those pretty eyes makes Enjolras angry. Grantaire shouldn't be worried. Enjolras is the one that fucked up. No one should worry, stress, fear, or lose sleep over the immense amount of trouble he's gotten himself into. Flashes of the baton, the statue, the crowd at his feet flood his vision. Those images are clear enough to trick him into believing he’s back there, if only for a moment. He flinches, dropping his gaze to the ground and squeezing his eyes shut. Who would want to spend their time at a hospital with him? Who would want to date someone who doesn’t know what day of the week it is? Who would want to kiss him with the circling scars covering half his face? The scars trace the damage that digs so deep. Enjolras self-consciously pulls his hat down, trying to hide the marks.    

     Hands wrap around his face, bringing his attention away from the spirally fear of what his life is now, what he’s truly capable of doing, if he’ll ever get out of the goddamn hospital. The hands are gentle but firm, forcing him to look up. Grantaire smiles at him. There’s no pity in the look. Not even sympathy or concern. Just a comforting sense of understanding, as if Enjolras was screaming his fears out on the top of his lungs. Enjolras must have started to cry because Grantaire wipes a few tears with the calloused pads of his thumbs. Before he can say anything, Enjolras closes the distance. The kiss doesn’t last longer than a breath and when Enjolras pulls back, he sees the shock on Grantaire’s face. Almost frantically, Enjolras starts apologizing with quick rotation's of his fist over his chest. He can’t kiss Grantaire. He can’t remember how long he’s been here. Grantaire brings his own hand to his lips, tentatively at first in his shock, before reaching for Enjolras.    

     His fingers wrap around Enjolras’ wrist, stopping his apologies but before he can say anything a voice rings out behind them. Enjolras takes the distraction and steps back, fear and guilt flooding through his chest because he can’t date. He can’t kiss someone. They are so good to him, Grantaire is so good him. How can he take advantage of that kindness?   

     “Hey guys. Are we almost ready?”   

     Turning around, Enjolras smiles against the threatening tears. Courfeyrac walks towards them with a wide grin, bright eyes, and a skip in his step. The closer he gets the harder it is for Enjolras to keep his emotions in check. Terrified at the prospect of seeing the terror on Grantaire’s face, the gentle discouragement to that kind of affection, Enjolras begins to shake. His hands, his shoulders, his jaw, his breathing, everything vibrates with the effort to keep the tears back. Unable to keep himself from the comfort and support he knows he’ll find, Enjolras walks directly into Courfeyrac’s path. He buries his face against Courfeyrac’s chest, finally sobbing as his friend wraps his arms around him in a fierce hug without questions. The sudden weight of his situation comes crashing down in an uncertain, forbidding kind of fear because if he doesn’t know what day of the week it is, what else is he forgetting? If he can’t kiss someone, what else can’t he do?   

     He can’t speak, he can’t date. He probably can’t work. Can he even live on his own? What if he’s only leaving this hospital to go to a long term assisted living situation? In a panic, he pushes himself out of Courfeyrac’s embrace and signs _Home?_ He’s still shaking, tears blurring his vision. His entire body is starting to crumple under the terror. Closing his eyes, he starts sobbing tragically. In Courfeyrac’s arms, in the tight and beloved hug, it’s not easier but he feels safer and he’s almost convinced they’re not committing him.    

     “What the hell happened?” Courfeyrac asks. Enjolras only shifts further into the hug as the vibrations from his voice ripple smoothly through his chest.   

     “I don’t know,” whispers Grantaire. His voice sends another wave of guilt through Enjolras. If he had just kissed him before he ended up here, if he had moved or stayed on the ground. If he hadn’t fucked up so very royally, everything would be normal. He could kiss Grantaire, he could go on a date. “He kissed me.”   

     “He what?”   

     “He kissed me.”   

     “Oh. Cool. Good for you guys.” Courfeyrac rests his cheek on the top of Enjolras’ head. “I think I lost a bet, though.”   

     “Cool? This looks like a positive response to you?”   

     “Well no. But it’s a stressful day. Maybe he just panicked.”   

     “Or he realized it was a huge, terrible, dreadful mistake.” Grantaire’s voice sounds bitter, full of sharp words and dark irritation. It doesn’t help Enjolras get control of the tears and if he focuses on it, he may have to run away so instead he focuses intently on the rumbling voice as it moves through his best friend’s chest.    

     “Do you want it to be a mistake?”   

     “No. God no! But before I could tell him that he started sobbing. This isn’t exactly what I thought our first kiss would be like.”   

     “You’ve thought of your first kiss?”   

     Grantaire answers softly. “Of course.”   

     “My advice? Give him some time, a few days to adjust to being back home, and change the way you’re speaking. Do everything non-verbally that you can think of short of kissing him back to reassure him you’re more than happy with it. I'd be surprised if kiss you was an actual mistake.”    

     Enjolras pushes himself back, purposefully ignoring Grantaire, and sums all of the control he can manage. "Home. I wanna go home."

     “Okay. Let’s go.” Courfeyrac wraps his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. As they start walking out the hospital doors, he calls over his shoulder to Grantaire. “Can you let Combeferre know we’re in the car?”   

     Seeing the familiar car, Combeferre’s car, Enjolras lifts his head off of his friend’s shoulder. He quickens his step and even finds himself grinning despite the frigid air hitting the streaks of tears on his cheeks. The metal along his temple and cheekbone shifts in the dramatic temperature change but he refuses to respond to the pain, wary of how precarious of a situation this may be. His fears start to fade with the security of Courfeyrac’s excited smile. Courfeyrac wouldn’t be this joyful if they were transferring Enjolras to an assisted living home. Choosing to believe his friend, to trust him, Enjolras simply curls up against him in the backseat, focusing on the warmth of the heater and the rumbling through Courfeyrac’s chest as he talks about one thing or another.    

     When Enjolras wakes up, he’s still lying against Courfeyrac’s chest but now Combeferre is on the other side of him and Éponine is turning off the car. Courfeyrac unbuckles his seatbelt for him and Combeferre helps him out of the car in smooth, reliable actions that don’t require explanations or muddled words. It takes him a minute of studying the alley to realize this is Combeferre’s parking spot. This is Combeferre’s parking spot to their apartment. To their home. He follows them into the building and up the stairs. They don’t have an elevator and by the fourth flight he starts to grow unsteady on his feet but he’s home. He’s going home. Nothing’s going to stop him.    

     Courfeyrac opens the door to their apartment. An echoing cheer fills the space around them, causing Enjolras to jump. All of his friends are standing in the living room, in his living room. There’s a large banner over the window, stacks of food on the kitchen island, and a cat in Jehan’s arms. Enjolras takes a deep breath. Everyone’s watching him. The cheers have quieted as they wait to see his response. As he steps forward and wanders to the kitchen, the apartment stays in that cautious, hushed volume. He moves towards the door of his bedroom, glancing in just to see the familiar space and getting a smile from Courfeyrac, who’s putting away the clothes that were kept at the hospital. As he moves to check on Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s bedrooms, Combeferre follows him. Everything looks the same. There are a few new blankets on the couch, a new coffee machine in the kitchen. There are pieces of paper hanging up over the stove, on the bathroom mirror, under the television. A white board is hanging near the front door and a small table under it. Those are new.   

     Saving his questions for another time, Enjolras moves back into the living room. He sits down in the middle of one of the couches and smiles. Combeferre sinks onto the couch next to him, Jehan and the cat on the other side. Leaning against his best friend, Enjolras accepts the cat Jehan hands him. A bubbling laugh rolls through his chest and into the silent apartment. It sparks something among his friends. They relax on the couches, pick up conversations, pass around boxes of food. Enjolras closes his eyes. With the voices of his family surrounding him, the purring cat on his chest, and the security of Combeferre’s arms, he quickly falls asleep. In his home, with his family.


	39. January 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras' first speech lesson after going home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the next chapter written so I'll post it within a few days (an apology for taking weeks to update at times!) 
> 
> Thank you for all the great comments! I'll be honest, I was a little worried about the style change in writing it from Enjolras' point of view so I'm really glad it came across well!

     Despite his eagerness to see Enjolras, Valjean’s smile falters as his next patient walks through the door looking worse than he did when he left the hospital. The young man has deep circles under his tired blue eyes. His gaze drifts slowly around the new room. Even though it’s almost four in the afternoon, he looks like he just woke up and is still struggling to break through the cloudy haze of sleep or, and probably more accurately, like he hasn’t sleep since he left the hospital. He's unsteady on his feet, only moving reliably with Combeferre’s hand on the small of his back. The sweatshirt he’s wearing hangs off his thin frame, far thinner, Valjean thinks, than when he was in the hospital and he’s still wearing the black arm brace. Valjean had thought he read in Enjolras’ file that he was supposed to be off the extra support by now. He’ll have to look again in case something has changed. Combeferre looks just as exhausted, the neatly constrained worry hidden behind his glasses and an easy smile. It’s not exactly the warm smiles he had hoped to see.    

     “Hello,” greets Valjean cheerfully because he’s still excited to see them. He gets a surprised, although brief smile from Enjolras when the boy finally looks to him and a silent of relief escapes Combeferre, followed by a grateful smile. “How are we doing?”   

     Enjolras raises one shoulder but moves to look at the items on the bookshelf without a reply. It leaves Valjean questioning whether or not he actually understood what was asked. Combeferre watches Enjolras carefully before answering softly. “We haven't slept well lately.”   

     “I'm sorry to hear that. Usually it’s the other way around when patients are released but hopefully we can tire you out today.” The doctor says with a smile. He studies his patient, noting the way Enjolras drifts away from Combeferre only to lean back into him.   

     “Hey, doc.” Combeferre calls in a low voice. He squeezes his friend’s arm as he steps forward. “Can I speak to you for a minute before we start?”   

     “Of course.”   

     Valjean comes around the desk as Combeferre signs to his friend that they'll be right outside. They’ve picked up sign language as a third language, easy and thoughtless. Combeferre, though, has refused to use it in hopes of forcing Enjolras to use and listen to English. If he’s using it now, it’s the easiest clue to understand just how difficult this lesson is going to be.  Despite his clear discomfort with Combeferre leaving, Enjolras nods his understanding. His face is brave but his bottom lip trembles. Valjean catches the boy look around the now empty room with a heavy sense of loneliness. The doctor’s focus shifts when the door closes, leaving it cracked just enough in case Enjolras needs something. In front of him, the boy is wringing his hands anxiously. His shoulders are slumped under an invisible weight.    

     “I'm sorry we're late. Enjolras insisted on tying his shoes this morning and, I love that he wants to, really I do, but well they're still untied. So you can imagine how long it took us just to get them on.” Combeferre takes off his glasses to clean them with the bottom of his shirt. There is a twitch of an amused smile laced with misdirected annoyance. Valjean knows from his own experience just how stubborn Enjolras can be. It wouldn’t surprise him if it’s gotten even worse now that he’s home and in the place where he used to plan on fixing the world.    

     The doctor waits, knowing full well that this couldn't be what Combeferre wanted to speak privately about. He would have simply apologized in their office. There’s no harm in Enjolras hearing that. If anything, it could get them started on a few easier ways to communicate when Enjolras gets stubborn and Combeferre gets annoyed. After a long minute passes and Combeferre remains silent, Valjean gives him an opening. “How's it being home?”   

     “It's so hard.” Combeferre says immediately. He squeezes his eyes shut in emphasis of the confession. When he looks up, the stress of the last few days is easy to see. “For some reason he can't do the things he could easily do at the hospital and he knows this so he's always upset. He's entirely off schedule, meaning his sleep is completely fucked up and when he doesn't sleep, I don't sleep, and he’s stopped sleeping. He’s just stopped for some fucked up reason he can’t articulate. He’s fighting it until he literally passes out in exhaustion. The medicine for his arm is making him sick and his attempt to avoid it is to just not eat which only makes everything worse. The longer he’s off his medicine, the longer he’ll be in the cast meaning the longer he won’t be in physical therapy where he could learn to tie his god damn shoes.” He takes a deep breath. “I knew it was going to be different but I didn't know it was going to be this taxing, this exhausting, this fucking frustrating.”   

     Valjean listens sympathetically. When Combeferre finally puts his glasses back on with a heavy sigh, he looks embarrassed. Before Valjean can reassure him, the boy is apologizing. “I'm sorry. I know I should be grateful he's home and, I mean, I am believe me I am so happy he's finally home, I just. I'm tired and it was so much easier in the hospital where I had people telling me he was okay and it's normal and it'll get better.”   

     “It's only been a four days, Combeferre. It does get easier,” reminds Valjean kindly.    

     “Oh god it's only been four days?”    

     “It's a transition and that's always tough. Everything in his life gets displaced. In time, it’ll smooth out into a familiar routine.” Valjean can’t help the amused smile as Combeferre takes off his glasses again, this time to run a hand across his face. Today he looks like a young man struggling with the burden of major brain trauma. It’s a shame the transition home hasn’t been as wonderful as they were hoping. “I'm only his speech therapist so I'm not sure how much I can help outside of that but I promise I can try.”   

     “Yeah,” Combeferre puts his glasses back on and with them his composure. “Yeah, you’re right. I'm sorry to vent to you like this.”   

     “If it helps, I am more than happy to listen.” Valjean reaches out and squeezes Combeferre’s shoulder to reinforce the promise. “Anything I can do to help, let me know.”   

     “Thank you.”   

     “Honestly, Combeferre. I’m glad to help.” Content that he’s calmed Combeferre, if only for a moment, Valjean moves back to his patient. Addressing the concerns that started to pop into his head as soon as he saw Enjolras, he runs down the list of productive questions. “As for his speech, has he been as sufficient as he was in the hospital?”   

     “Occasionally but he’s very inconsistent. So, no, I guess. Not really. When he’s tired, he’s far from fluent and when there’s more than, I don’t know, four? More than four people around he loses it. Sometimes he tries but it’s nothing more than that and because it’s only been four days everyone comes over at least once a day. But it’s the worst when he’s tired. I think it’s really hard for him to understand what’s being said when he’s that exhausted and it’s easier to just not try. That’s when it’s the hardest.”    

     “Is there a time in the day where he's more communicative? Or situations where it’s easier for him?”   

     Combeferre thinks for a minute. “Probably about an hour after he wakes up, I guess. He’s usually a bit grumpy right when he wakes up. He’s never been a good morning person, anyway. The longer he’s awake, the harder things get but there are a few hours where he’s happy and content. Mostly when it’s been just me, him, and Courf. That would probably be the best opportunity for him to speak. I think it’s the most comfortable situation for him and there’s been a few times where he’s said a lot. Then, add being exhausted to his already questionable ability to focus and it doesn’t take long for him to lose his temper. Which is much worse than it was in the hospital. I’m not sure why.”    

     “Where on that timeline would you say he is now?”   

     “I’d say that he was dangerously close to falling asleep in the car on the way here. I probably should have let him sleep but it wouldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes. He hasn’t slept all day so there was no telling how long he’d sleep for.”   

     “Well, I’ve dealt with almost every emotion Enjolras could throw at me so at least it won’t be a surprise.” Valjean says with an amused smile.

     His heart lifts when Combeferre snorts out a laugh. “I’m so glad he got you as his speech therapist. Larose said that he knew right away the only one that could handle him was you.”   

     Valjean shakes his head. He makes a note to speak about that to Larose. “Enjolras doesn’t need to be handled. He’s just difficult to read but he also works harder than any patient I’ve had in the twenty years I’ve been doing this. He has a way of getting into peoples hearts.”   

     “He does, doesn’t he?” Combeferre says with a smile. It’s an expression laced with an odd sense of sadness, as if he’s still adjusting to the different pieces of his friend’s personality. After a deep breath, he shifts modes. “On that note, though, I want to apologize. We’ve tried to keep up with the homework you recommended but it feels like he’s either been sleeping or fighting sleep. When he wasn’t, we were too busy enjoying the rare moment of normalcy to push it. I have a feeling it’s not going to be a very productive lesson.”  

     Before he can reassure Combeferre that this transition, especially since it’s been more difficult than expected, isn’t the ideal time to push Enjolras, a brief crash echoes from behind his office door. Combeferre is quick to react, swinging the door open with a quiet panic behind his glasses. In the corner by Valjean’s desk, Enjolras sits back on his heels. He looks up at them, both sheepish and flustered. There are a few pieces of glass in his hand from where he’s trying pick up the broken picture frame. He doesn’t say anything, but he tries once. When his apology falls on his tongue, he swallows and looks anxiously to Combeferre for help.   

     Instantly Combeferre is by his side, smiling tenderly as he helps remove the glass from Enjolras’ slightly shaking hand to the trashcan. Once free of the danger he was holding, Combeferre helps Enjolras sit in a chair and examines his palm for any cuts. There are a few small nicks but nothing that requires more attention. Leaving him at the round table, Combeferre goes back to picking up the glass and fractured wood from where the frame shattered on the hardwood floor. After a forceful bite of his bottom lip, Enjolras manages to explain. “Fell.” He points to his shoes. “I tripped.”   

     Failing to find the word, he signs his apologies to Valjean. Seeing the angst in the young man’s face, Valjean is quick to reassure him with a sincere smile. “Nothing we can’t easily fix.”   

     He still apologizes a second time. Combeferre silently moves around the room, from cleaning up the frame to tying his friends shoes to double checking his hand for any pieces of glass that he may have missed the first time. Placing the picture on the table, Valjean watches Combeferre’s burden. The sudden urge to hug him until he falls asleep only grows with a quick glance to Enjolras. Despite Combeferre’s constant little smiles to his friend, the tired defeat never subsides and Valjean only wants to shelter these boys. Twenty-four, he reminds himself. They are only twenty-four years old. They are only two years older than Cosette.   

     “Combeferre, come sit.” Valjean demands calmly as he takes his own seat. “I’m sure we’ll be fine as long as we keep our shoes on.”   

     With one last look around, Combeferre moves to sit next to Enjolras. He sinks heavily into the chair, leaning back to make it clear he’s not actively involved in the session. Enjolras taps his arm, though, and the boy sits up. He’s patient while Enjolras signs. The sign language is slow and requires a startling amount of thought. Even then, with using his easiest way of communicating, he messes up and waves his hand to start over. Before he can make his point, Valjean speaks. It’s a risk to challenge him so soon after the little incident with the frame but the reward, should it be successful, would be worth it. “Enjolras, these sessions are going to be just like the ones we had when you were staying in the hospital. No signing until we’re done.”   

     There is a flash of narrowed eyes before Enjolras takes one deep breath, affectively calming himself down. He still doesn’t speak to Valjean, most likely upset at being forced to struggle through his words, especially when he was struggling through his signing. Valjean studies him closely. If Enjolras is stumbling over his signs, his words are sure to be far more disjointed. Their first few lessons may have to be altered to suit that.    

     “Me,” says Enjolras to his best friend. “Like me.”   

     “What is?” Combeferre asks. Enjolras shifts in his seat to point at the photo. To Valjean, Combeferre asks permission. “May I?”   

     “Of course.” The doctor uncaps his pen as Combeferre looks over the photo. Enjolras watches Combeferre with an amused little smirk so drastically different than the fear not a minute earlier. It’s incredible what theses boys can do for each other.   

     “Holy shit. It does look like you.” Combeferre knits is brow, laughing a little. “Is this Cosette?”   

     Valjean nods. “I think she’s about ten there.”   

     “Awe,” coos Combeferre. He reaches out to playfully pinch Enjolras’ cheek, saying, “You were so pretty.”   

     Enjolras knocks his hand away but the smile reaches his eyes and Valjean’s feels it’s warmth. Twenty-four years old. They’re too young to be worried about relearning how to tie shoes and healthy sleep schedules. It’s a shame that Valjean can’t do more and without Combeferre, he probably wouldn’t even be able to start the lesson. He can’t imagine what it’s like when they’re home. For Enjolras to only have that comfort, to have that trust with Combeferre or Courfeyrac it must be exhausting, draining, an all consuming energy. Certainly the patience that is so encouraged by their love for Enjolras is going to be tested shortly.    

     Despite Valjean’s concerns, Enjolras moves smoothly into the speech lesson. Eventually, Combeferre leans back in his chair, almost completely leaving the conversation. With one elbow leaning on the arm of his chair and his chin resting heavily in his hand, he watches Enjolras with a focused concentration. Valjean doesn’t let himself get distracted with the boy’s thoughtful scrutiny. Instead, he focuses on his job. It’s easy enough when Enjolras is trucking along like the good little student he can be, albeit slow in his responses and in need of tedious coaxing once the lesson begins to breach the newer subjects and more difficult tasks. He tends to drift away from the conversation, slowly glancing outside or picking at the frayed strings on his cast. Valjean mostly manages to pull him back without the help of Combeferre.    

     There is a shift, though, and it’s subtle enough where Valjean almost misses it. Combeferre sure as hell doesn’t. He sits up in his seat, straight back and pensive in his study of Enjolras’ quietly changing mannerisms. Enjolras’s blue eyes flicker from the paper on the table to Valjean, as he had been but he’s no longer hopeful for hints but instead, he looks rather annoyed. If Combeferre hadn’t reacted, the doctor might not have picked up on it. There is a narrow and fiery threat behind the blue glaze of exhaustion. With each passing question, Valjean feels as if he is provoking a terrible force. He immediately regrets this particular activity this late in their session, especially with knowing that Enjolras has had a hard transition home. It’s the same activity that he always stumbles through. In a sudden flash of anger, Enjolras shoves the cards across the table.    

     Combeferre takes his friend’s hand in his own. Enjolras turns his hand for a better grip, keeping it tight, but he looks away to hide the tears running down his cheeks. The room falls quiet. Valjean leans back in his chair, closing the file. He lets several minutes pass, giving Enjolras the time for the tears to dry, before he clears his throat. “What’s your favorite thing about being home?”   

     After raising his shoulder to brush a tear away, Enjolras turns to look at him. He licks his bottom lip, and then signs,  _What?_

     “Can you use your words?” Valjean asks gently. It’s more hopeful than cautious, aiming to ease him into a more neutral setting, the kind that always works better when Enjolras’ patience reaches his limit.    

     Enjolras rolls his eyes and looks away for several long minutes before finally turning back to Valjean. Whether or not the encouraging squeeze of his hand from Combeferre had something to do with the change of attitude, Valjean doesn’t question it. It doesn’t surprise him either, that Combeferre has that influence over Enjolras. It’s the reason why he’s invited to these lessons. After a deep breath from Enjolras, the boy manages to respond. “Can repeat?”   

     “Of course. I asked what’s your favorite thing about being home?”   

     “Oh.” Enjolras bites his lip for a moment, looking like he’s trying to decide what to answer, not how. “It’s big.”   

     “Big?”   

     “Yeah. Big. With a kitchen, a bed, friends. Dante.” Enjolras smiles, shifting in his chair. He nods as he settles on the answer. “It’s big.”   

     Valjean has no ability to bite back his own smile. The boy’s own is infectious. “Who’s Dante?”   

     “A cat,” Enjolras answers easily. Next to him, Combeferre narrows his eyes at the doctor. He knows for a fact that Valjean has seen the kitten before. The topic will ease Enjolras into speaking more along with allowing Valjean the chance to study his vocabulary range. If it works, he’ll be happy that Valjean was able to get him talking, even if it’s not particularly challenging lesson. He’s not sure Enjolras could handle challenging. Falling asleep is hard enough. Still. Combeferre hates that it was such a hassle to get here, right when Enjolras was just starting to fall asleep, only to talk about a cat. Valjean knows better, he tells himself. Certainly this means more, does more, accomplishes more than Combeferre could ever know. He reminds himself that he trusts Valjean.   

     “Who’s cat is it?”   

     “A cat.” Enjolras squints his eyes in his uncertainty.   

     “Is it your cat?”   

     “Yes. My cat. R got it. He lives me. My bed.” His words are short and a little mumbled, similar to how he spoke when he first started working with Valjean. With the back of his fist, he rubs the sleep from his eye.    

     The action makes him look so much younger that it tears at Valjean’s heart a little. Feeling sympathetic, he sits up in his seat. Confident with the knowledge that Enjolras’ lack of speaking is related to the taxing transition opposed to an actual lose of ability, he offers the boy a moment to himself. “Would you like to take a break? I need to drop off several files. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”   

     “A what?”   

     “A break.” He smiles when Enjolras’ eyes light up at the suggestion. Before the boy can nod eagerly, he warns Enjolras that he’s not getting off that easy. “But. When I come back, I want us to finish this exercise.”    

     Enjolras glances at the scattered notecards. He thinks for a moment before nodding, then immediately gets up to start collecting the paper squares from the floor. The doctor squeezes his shoulder as he passes, leaving the room with an empty file. Valjean wanders down to the other side of the hospital, stopping to speak to a few patients and a couple of his favorite nurses. There are homemade cookies he suspects his daughter is responsible for, so he happily steals three. To give Enjolras a few more minutes, he sits on a bench to enjoy the cookie, then finally makes his way back to his office.    

     Although he’s not sure what he had anticipated, finding the two boys asleep on the couch was not on his list. Both Combeferre and Enjolras are far too tall to be comfortably asleep, yet alone the two of them together but it doesn't seem to bother either of them. Combeferre is leaning up against the arm of the couch, head propped up with a pillow. He has one foot on the edge of the couch and one on the floor. Enjolras is between his friend and the back cushions. He's curled into Combeferre’s chest, his hand resting in front of his face, protecting him from being seen by Valjean. When the door closes, Combeferre’s head snaps up. Seeing Valjean, he moves to wake up his friend but is quickly stopped by a hand on his shoulder.   

     “Let him sleep,” Valjean whispers as he offers Combeferre a cookie. He takes it with a surprised smile, shifting a little to keep one arm secure around Enjolras’ shoulders so he can eat the treat with the other. As Valjean sits at the table, he realizes Combeferre’s running his thumb back and forth on Enjolras’ shoulder. It’s a small, thoughtless action that speaks volumes for the depth of their relationship. He hopes Cosette finds that, whether it be in a friend or a significant other. Just someone who loves her to the lengths that Combeferre does Enjolras. Finding himself struck by a wave of emotion, Valjean turns his attention to Enjolras’ file.   

     A soft sniffle from Enjolras brings his head up. He puts his pen down, leaving the notes for another time. There’s a blanket in the bench under the window, kept for the late nights Cosette waited for him to finish work before driving home together. That’s before she moved in with Jehan. It hasn’t been used since then and he feels parentally nostalgic as he pulls it out. Combeferre has his eyes closed, head tilted back but he’s not asleep. He shifts to look at Valjean as the man covers Enjolras with the soft blanket. “Thank you.”   

     “I’m more than happy to help.” Valjean promises. Sensing something bigger, he turns the chair so he can face the couch, propping his feet onto the coffee table.    

     Combeferre pulls the blanket further over Enjolras’ shoulders, watching him thoughtfully before speaking again. It’s a soft voice but stronger than a whisper as if knowing the exact way to speak without waking Enjolras. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. From taking him on as a patient to being so kind to him. So incredibly patient.”   

     “I’d say it’s part of the job but Enjolras really is something else.” Valjean mimics his tone. “I’m sorry he’s in this position but I’m grateful we were able to meet. He’s an incredible young man.”   

     There’s a brief smile before Combeferre grows somber. He keeps his eyes on Enjolras as he asks, “Do you think I can take advantage of your trust?”   

     “Of course.”   

     He laughs, startled by the honesty. “I don’t know if we’ll have the money ready for his speech lessons. We can have it, I promise, I just have to figure out where to get it. My parents offered to cover his lessons and Courfeyrac’s assured they can help but I know Enjolras would kill me if I borrowed money from them without going through every possible option. Again, it’s all a matter of figuring it out and working the budget but if we need to postpone the lessons, I completely understand.”   

     “Don’t worry about it. The more time between lessons, the lower his success rate will be.”   

     “Yes, I know that but we can’t pay you right now. I’m just asking if we can remain on your schedule for when we can.”   

     “Don’t pay me. Or pay me what you can, when you can. Either way we’ll keep the same schedule.”    

     They both quiet when Enjolras shifts, moving higher onto Combeferre’s chest but keeping his face towards the couch. Once he stills, Combeferre looks back to the doctor and shakes his head. “You’ve already done so much for us.”   

     “It’s not a big deal.”

     “Yes it is. You’re the best speech therapist in the northeast. Your pro bono cases are full. We can’t ask you to add to that.”   

     “I can always take on pro bono cases.”   

     “You’d still have to meet a quota for the hospital so it would mean adding on an incredible amount of work. I’ve talked to Cosette about this. We don’t want to put you through that with the chance that we wouldn’t be able to pay you in the end.”   

     “Skipping weeks or stopping our lessons altogether would be incredibly detrimental to his recovery.” Valjean drops his feet to lean towards him. “I refuse to let that happen simply because you can’t pay.”   

     Combeferre studies his face for several minutes. Seeing the honesty and determination in the old doctor’s face, his own crumples in emotion. A few tears slide down his cheeks. He quickly wipes them away, trying to regain his composure as he does so. It takes another long moment, several deep breaths, and a look to Enjolras before Combeferre turns back to the doctor. “Thank you. Thank you so much. We just have all of these bills with the addition of speech lessons and physical therapy. Courf and I got in this huge fight because where speech lessons are vital, physical therapy is necessary if he wants to regain that strength. I mean, speaking is incredibly important, clearly, but he has a better chance of learning how to tie his shoe than getting a job and if he can tie a shoe, then eventually he won’t need to be with someone all the time.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry but really, thank you.”   

     The doctor smiles. “I do, however, have one request.”   

     “Anything.”   

     “You, Enjolras, and all the others join Cosette and I for Sunday dinner.”   

     Clearly it wasn’t what Combeferre was expecting. He knits his brow and narrows his eyes. “What?”   

     “Cosette and I always have dinner at my house on Sundays. I would like to ask you all to join. I miss being able to stop by and see everyone,” Valjean confesses. For the time he had a part in their lives, he felt the warmth of a large family. It reminded him of the years he spent living with his sister and her children. If they don’t mind, he’d love to continue a small piece of that. “When Enjolras is up for it, of course, and when it doesn’t interfere with your lives.”   

     “Really? Every Sunday? We'd love to.” The excitement in his voice is unexpected. Valjean finds himself doubtful for a moment until he sees the eager expression. “My mom does that. Sunday dinners. Whenever I go to visit, usually with Enjolras, we always make sure it includes the Sunday dinner because my sisters all live near each other. I think he’d really enjoy it and I know I will.”   

     “That’s great.” Valjean grins. “Great. It’s a deal then?”   

     “Deal.”   

     Valjean falls back in his seat, already planning the dinner. These children are so young and so burdened. If he can give them just a little reprieve, a stress free night where they don’t have to cook or worry or plan, he’d feel like he’s helping. And if that brings them back into his life, then Valjean is more than lucky. He hadn’t planned on adopting these children as his extended family and he never would have guessed he’d be so pleased with it. The first thing he does after Enjolras wakes up and the two boys leave is write the date in his calendar.


	40. February 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little side note: I didn't fact check, just kind of assumed, so don't hold me to any of the information written! I do know that there are programs in most places where sign language interpreters can be provided.
> 
> And as always thank you for the wonderful comments!

     The volume of the television is so low that it can barely be heard, although it doesn’t matter because no one is paying attention. When Enjolras wakes up, it’ll be turned off anyway. Cosette is focusing on school work while Musichetta and Bahorel are cooking in the kitchen. Jehan is playing with Dante on the carpet. Grantaire has his sketchpad open. Whatever they have in front of them is merely for show because everyone is listening into the conversation from the table. Marius, Bossuet, and Feuilly are sorting through the hospital bills, trying to find the best budget, plan, and source of income to pay these off. Even that’s a charade. Their real focus is trying to convince Combeferre to tap into the Les Amis account. He won’t have any of it, out right denying the option when they first sat down forty-five minutes ago. With the information, dramatically contrasting numbers, threatening letters open in front of them, Marius tries again.   

     “I don’t understand why we can’t incorporate the Les Amis account,” he says in a soft voice. This is the first time Enjolras has fallen asleep and stayed asleep longer than two hours in the last two days. But it’s Saturday and no one is working, so they’ll wait as long as they need to for Enjolras to wake up. Few things are as reassuring as seeing him walking around his own apartment and the wide smile when he sees everyone is still here is well worth the hours whispering. Some can even convince themselves nothing’s changed and the scars are just illusions, a passing mar of the winter that will fade with the snow.    

     “It barely makes a dent.” Feuilly shrugs the suggestion off as Combeferre shakes his head. He’s the only ally Combeferre has in this battle. Although knowing they don’t have any other options, he understands just how Enjolras would feel if they used that to pay for his own medical bills. It’s the same way he’d feel if they were to spend all of that money on an injury he himself caused.   

     Marius is insistent and everyone is grateful he has stepped up to the task. “But it makes a dent and that’s more than we can say about any other option we have.”     

     Combeferre drops his pen and leans back in the chair. His hands run through his hair as he stretches. Hopefully he and Enjolras can go for a walk later. The numbers are starting to feel suffocating. He’s jealous of Courfeyrac. Snuggling with Enjolras is much preferred over these terrible and necessary decisions. “He wouldn’t want us to use it. Ask him when he wakes up and he’ll say no.”   

     “If we didn’t, though, he probably wouldn’t know, right?” Bossuet asks. “Not for several months, at least.”   

     Feuilly glances to him, the scowl dropping when he only sees Bossuet’s eager smile at the hopefully helpful suggestion. It’s not rude or meant to be deceiving, just bright and optimistic that they’d have a better solution by then. Feuilly softens his initial tone to something more straightforward. “That doesn’t mean we should use it.”   

     Marius leans across the table to get Combeferre’s attention because in the end, he’s the one going to make the call. When his friend finally looks at him, there’s a defeated breath on his chest. Combeferre knows this is their only option. It doesn’t matter how much Enjolras wouldn’t want to use it, they don’t have a choice. It’s not like the money is going anywhere else. “If we don’t use that money, he’ll drown in the bills with no means to make it up. This will at least extend the timeline. Then if we each start putting in a certain percentage a week, we should be able to keep up. Especially since you said your parents will pay for the speech lessons and Courf’s will cover the physical therapy. It’ll be several years before we can pay everything off but at least we can pay everything off.”   

     “Then the Les Amis account becomes Enjolras’ medical fund.” It’s Combeferre’s last push to convince them away from this plan. Even his voice is soft in the weak attempt.    

     “Either way it’ll be doing good,” Marius reminds him. “I know you don’t want to hear it but he needs this.”    

     He rubs his eyes under his glasses. “How long do we have? Until they start coming after the money?”   

     Feuilly shifts in his seat. He’s taken the page of notes he had been staring at and is now folding a large paper crane. Each one he made in the hospital are dispersed around Enjolras’ room, hidden in his shelves and across his desk. He doesn’t look up from the origami to answer. No matter his opinion, he’ll aim to stay neutral. Facts and best options, for both the bills and Enjolras. “Not long. Now that he’s out of the hospital they’ll be far less relaxed."   

     “I know he won’t be happy about us using it,” Marius says. Combeferre was insistent that they look at every other possible solution, out right refusing to even look at the numbers in the account until now. Enjolras is the only one who wouldn’t want to use it and therefore Combeferre will defend it to the last cent. Everyone else has been putting in more and more of their paychecks over the last few months in seeing this as his only chance. Combeferre still clung to Enjolras waking up one day with the same ability he had before June. “But he would be the first one to suggest it if it were any of us facing these kind of bills.”   

     This brings Combeferre’s attention up, away from the papers in front of him. The notes, bills, hopeful and unrealistic options. It’s not hard to understand why he and Courfeyrac haven’t found a real solution in the past months they’ve tried to figure out Enjolras’ growing financial problem. There are no other solutions except the one they continue to ignore. Not even the small help Lamarque was able to give after pulling this and that and a hundred other strings can give Enjolras a real chance. Combeferre sinks in his chair, staring at the table. He doesn’t look up when Bossuet calls his name but is forced to when his friend squeezes his arm. Before he can say anything, there’s a knock on the door. It’s short and hesitant, stealing everyone’s attention.   

     They glance over to Courfeyrac’s slightly cracked bedroom door, then back at a second knock. Combeferre gets up and quickly crosses the apartment to answer the it before there’s a louder knock that runs the risk of waking Enjolras up. Expecting a deliveryman or neighbor, Combeferre’s jaw drops when he sees a rather handsomely aging man waiting in the hallway. Memories of Enjolras' red bedroom, skinned knees, and grand adventures in the woods around the estate come flashing back with enough force to leave him speechless. The image of Enjolras’ brand new bike sticks in his mind for some reason. Courfeyrac had crashed into the tree so hard that part of the frame got stuck in the trunk. They didn’t tell his dad for two weeks. Combeferre wouldn’t have thought to tell him about this accident if Courfeyrac hadn’t mentioned it during the first few days in the hospital.   

     "Philippe,” he says distractedly as he wonders if the tree is still scarred by that spring afternoon. His hand is still on the door knob, hiding the man’s face from half the room behind him. Éponine, Grantaire, and Cosette try to casually move into the kitchen so they can see who’s here. Despite their efforts, there’s nothing subtle about the movement. Philippe watches them pass before turning back to the young man in front of him.   

     “Hello Combeferre.” The man’s voice is low and strong, reminiscent of his son’s. “Is my son home?”   

     Still shocked, Combeferre forces himself to nod before shaking his head clear of the surprise. He steps aside, letting the man into the apartment. Every warning sign is ringing silently through the apartment but they’re all here for Enjolras. If the man has questionable motives he’ll have each one to go through. “Come on in.”   

     The man steps in only enough to close the door, keeping his hands in his pockets as he studies the faces staring at him. He gives them a small, tight smile. It’s met mostly with narrowed glares. All except for Jehan. The poet’s head is tilted to the side in a curious, pleased kind of way. Philippe studies his face before taking a guess. “Jean Prouvaire?”

     “Hi.” Jehan grins as he steps forward to shake the older man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”   

     “Thank you,” Philippe says softly, a strangely intense emotion settling into the small lines of age on his face. The others share a look, all silently asking  _what the fuck?_ “Thank you for everything.”   

     Combeferre clears his throat, bringing the attention back to him and away from whatever that was about. There’s a reason Philippe is here and he wants to know so he can prepare a reaction, be it pleasantly surprised or protective. “You wanted to see Enjolras?”   

     “Yes. If I can.”   

     He leads the man towards Courfeyrac’s bedroom, pushing the door open a little more so he can look in. A long, silent moment passes where he stays at the safe distant and stares at his sleeping child. After a few minutes, Combeferre feels the need to move forward in the reason of the visit so he softly explains, “He’s been asleep for a few hours now. You can go in, though. If you’d like.”   

     “Would it wake him?”   

     “It might.”    

     “May I have a word first, then?” He glances around the many faces watching him before adding, “Perhaps in the hall?”

     “Sure.” Again, Combeferre leads him outside.    

     When the door closes behind them, Bahorel laughs in his confusion before sobering and setting Jehan with a look. “What the hell was that?”   

     Jehan shrugs. “We talk.”   

     “What does that mean?” Grantaire asks, forcing him into an explanation. At the kitchen table, Marius stacks the papers and Bossuet closes the bedroom door before moving to join the conversation.    

     “Well, a few months ago I came over with Courfeyrac to try and help figure out some of the insurance forms. I checked Enjolras’ computer but given he doesn’t have insurance it was a dead end. But,” he pauses dramatically, “I found all these emails. He and his dad don’t talk, exactly, but they were exchanging emails every few weeks up until the morning of the protest.”    

     Musichetta knits her brow. “How is that not talking?”   

     “It’s more of just quick updates and little pieces of their lives that they share. Meaning they still care about each other they're both just too stubborn to ask. So I started sending him emails, updates, and photos of everything that was going on.” Jehan shrugs again, smiling almost smugly. The man only ever responded with a simple, _Thank you, Jean_. The response was quick, with in a few hours of receiving the e-mail, and it was all he needed to know that he was doing something right.    

     “Holy shit,” Feuilly says suddenly. His head is ducked over a phone that’s definitely not his. “There are like, two hundred photos of Enjolras on here.”   

     “What the hell is that, Feuilly?” Joly asks, stepping forward to look over his friend’s shoulder.   

     Feuilly looks up, smiling shyly. “I accidentally grabbed his phone.”    

     “You accidentally grabbed his phone,” repeats Musichetta with a disbelieving laugh. Everyone starts to circle around the phone. “You don’t just accidentally grab a phone out of someone’s pocket.”   

     “Well, he walked past me. I couldn’t help it.”   

     “If he didn’t, I would have,” Éponine admits, taking the phone from her friend and flipping through the photos at her own pace.    

     “It’s his fault,” Feuilly states. “Who doesn’t have a passcode on their phone anymore? It’s like he was hoping we’d do that.”   

     “I doubt a man of his class would hope some random ass kid would steal his phone,” Grantaire laughs.   

     “Holy shit, there really are two hundred photos of Enjolras here.” The girl holds the phone out so everyone can squeeze in to see. She pauses on a photo of all of them in the High Dependency room, crowded on every surface and snuggled up on the bed with Enjolras. It gives Musichetta enough time to jump on Bossuet’s back so she can see without cutting into Cosette’s line of sight.    

     They fall quiet as she moves through the photos. There’s one of everyone dressed up for Halloween, one of him curled up with Cosette and Éponine on the couch, another of the blond and Courfeyrac grinning on a bench outside with their heads pressed together. The bright smiles are almost enough to forget the white bandages on Enjolras forehead. Almost. There’s a gorgeous photo of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras walking through the fall leaves and the same photo of Grantaire, Enjolras, and the children with their colorful casts. Everyone’s smiles fall when they get to a rather heartbreaking picture of Enjolras after his last surgery when he was still feverish and struggling to breathe on his own, then one from the holiday party where Enjolras looks asleep on his feet. There’s a candid shot of Enjolras working with Valjean, several of the blond and the kitten, a photo of Combeferre and Enjolras sleeping on the couch with the  _Welcome Home!_ banner behind them. The last two are from earlier in the week. One is of Enjolras reading in the Musain and the other is him standing outside the cafe with a great big grin on his face as snowflakes land on his red hat.   

     “Wow,” Éponine says softly. The others nod in agreement, silently looking through the last eight months. “Good job, Jehan.”   

     In the hallway, it’s just as quiet. Combeferre waits for an explanation as Philippe finds the courage for one. It takes an incredible amount of effort not punch the man. Philippe takes a deep breath, then apologizes. “I’m sorry.”   

     This time, Combeferre can’t keep himself from hitting him. He shoves Philippe but grabs a handful of his shirt and raises a curled fist. His hand shakes, trembling with the desire to break the man’s nose. Before he does, he finds a semblance of control by imagining Enjolras opening the door at that exact moment. No matter what his feelings for his father, seeing his best friend punching him in the face can’t be the start of a good day. With another shove, just to get his point across, Combeferre lets go and takes a step back. Philippe doesn’t seem surprised. He simply smooths out the wrinkles in his shirt, and faces Combeferre with a bored look, just a small hint of his anger in his narrowed eyes. “If you’re going to hit me, I’d prefer you do it now and get it out of the way.”   

     Combeferre clenches his jaw, almost deciding to say fuck it and break his nose anyway. The man is here for a reason though. He owes it to Enjolras to figure it out. “Eight months.” His lip curls in anger. “Two hundred and seventeen days.”   

     “I know,” Philippe says with a sigh. To Combeferre’s surprise, he almost sounds guilt-ridden.    

     “Eight months!” He repeats louder. “You didn’t visit him once. You didn’t call. You didn’t ask if he was still alive.”   

     “I know! I know. But that’s why I’m here now. I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t do it.” He licks his bottom lip, shaking his head. “If he- if he didn’t.” Again, he has to stop to get control of his emotions. “If he died. I couldn’t do that. If he died, I could have just pretended he was still here, with you and Courfeyrac, taking on the world.”   

     “So when he woke up, when he was going to be okay, what was your excuse then?”   

     “He woke up, then he had the surgery, with the respiratory complications. Then he got sick. Really sick. Once he got over that, he was home. It’s selfish, I know, and I don’t have any other reason for not being there for him.”   

     “You’re his father. His dad. His only living parent! And you didn’t see him once.”   

     Philippe’s expression softens, composure finding it’s place along the lines in his face. Despite already knowing the answer, he still asks, “Tell me, Combeferre, how many times did he ask for me?” Combeferre startles back a little at the question, realizing that Enjolras never once called for his dad. All those days in the hospital, all that pain and fear never brought him to need his dad. Nodding, Philippe then asks, “And his mom?”    

     Looking at his shoes, Combeferre nods. Tears spring to his eyes because he can still hear the heartbreaking way Enjolras begged for his mom. Caught in the fever, he had pleaded for the woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years, closer to her in the grave than Combeferre next to him. “Twice. But that was when he was really sick.”   

     “And how many times did he call for you?” He asks, smiling a little. When Combeferre doesn’t answer he nods again in that annoying authoritative way he’s always had of doing. “That’s what I thought. Thank you, by the way. For being there for him.”   

     “Where else would I be?” Combeferre asks, offended and trying to imagine not being by Enjolras' side when he woke up. The man only laughs as if that’s exactly what he expected to hear.   

     “You’ve always been better to him than I have,” he says softly. After running a hand through his hair and sobering to something more pained and thoughtful, he pulls out a crisp check from his pocket. As he speaks he stares at the paper. “He’s not legally allowed his trust fund until he graduates from a top ten university. Seeing as he was kicked out before his first semester, I thought he’d never see that money.” Still in disbelief that Enjolras managed that, he pauses for a short laugh. “I had it set up so that when I died, he could donate it to which ever charity he chose. However, I thought this would be considered an extenuating circumstance.”   

     Taking the check, Combeferre whistling at the number. “Wow.”   

     “I might not have been there for him in the way you have but I can still help. I want to help. With this, he’d never have to worry about money again.”   

     After thinking for a moment, he shakes his head and hands the check back. “I’m not the one you need to say this to. I can’t make this decision for him.”   

     A brief flash of pain passes over Philippe’s face before he composes himself. He stares at the check, then tries to bargain with Combeferre. “He doesn’t have to cash it right away. Not until he decides he wants it or until he needs it. I know the hospital bills must be outrageous and the chances of him working again are limited. I can help eliminate that stress for the rest of his life.”   

     “I’m not going to take it.”   

     “Why not?”   

     “Because you need to tell him what you just told me," Combeferre states with a voice of authority. “You need to go in there and kiss his forehead. Smile at him. Tell him you love him. Offer him the check yourself because if it comes from me, it’ll be an after thought and he won’t want it.”   

     “It’s not an afterthought.”   

     “Prove that to him because he won’t believe me. He probably won’t believe you either but it’ll at least mean more.”   

     The man breathes deeply. Clutching at straws, he shakes his head. “He’s sleeping.”   

     “Go wake him up. It took you eight months to get here.”   

     When he doesn’t say anything, Combeferre leads him inside. He ignores the way his friends jump away from each other and how Éponine suspiciously keeps her hands behind her back to go straight to Courfeyrac’s room. There’s no need to confirm that Enjolras’ father is following him, he can feel the man trailing nervously. The lights are off l but the curtains are half open to give Courfeyrac enough light to see if he needs something. On the nightstand are the same things that follow wherever Enjolras sleeps. Water, his medicine, some kind of food to eat within ten minutes of taking the antibiotics, and a small white trashcan in case he misses the timeline and gets sick. Today it’s a half eaten bagel next to a sketchbook, his glasses, and Courfeyrac’s work files. They’re both asleep on the bed, Enjolras on his back with one arm covering his face and Courfeyrac on his stomach with an arm across his friend’s chest and his face buried in Enjolras’ neck.    

     Philippe hesitates by the door, staring at his son. For several long minutes, he only stares. He studies the rise and fall of the boy’s chest, how his arm covers his eyes and the scars, the small twitch of his mouth as he sniffles.    

     “His hair is long,” Philippe comments quietly.   

     “He won’t let us cut it.”   

     “Are they together?”   

     “No.” Combeferre shakes his head. “Courfeyrac is dating Jehan.”   

     The man looks over his shoulder to Combeferre, raising his eyebrows. “Good for Courfeyrac.” He quickly looks back to his son before asking, “Can he, you know, date?”   

     “Don’t underestimate him. Even with brain damage, he’ll still surprise you with what he’s capable of.” Combeferre feels the swell of emotions swirling in his chest. Before leaving, needing a moment to regain his composure, he feels the sudden need to warn him and justify Enjolras in case he doesn't live up to expectations. “He will be really confused when he wakes up, though, and will probably resort to sign language. His comprehension should be fine and Courfeyrac can translate for you so just speak steadily.”   

     “You’re leaving?”   

     “It’s not my decision,” Combeferre reminds him before disappearing. Once he’s in the living room a phone is immediately shoved in his hands.     

     It takes the man several minutes to regain control of his breathing to the point he’s confident enough to move closer to the bed. Enjolras shifts suddenly, stretching his arms above his head and rolling to his side. His arm ends up over Courfeyrac’s face, waking him up. Without opening his eyes, Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras closer to his chest. Philippe watches, feeling like an intruder for seeing such an intimate moment between the two friends. When he steps to the side, debating his chances of convincing Combeferre, Courfeyrac opens his eyes. Looking up to the man, he jolts back, then pushes himself up. Enjolras rubs his eyes and yawns, not registering or caring just how startled Courfeyrac was.    

     “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he whispers. Courfeyrac only glares at him. Philippe doesn’t aim to change his opinion because it means he has Enjolras' best interest in mind. The boy needs people looking out for him, now more than ever. Looking to his son, he smiles. It's small and gentle, something he's hasn't felt towards Enjolras since he was a toddler, when he last looked like he needed protection. The blond is staring at him, his brow furrowed and his head tilted in his confusion. He looks to Courfeyrac as if to confirm the man’s actually there, only glancing up to Philippe for a brief moment when the man steps closer to the bed. “Hi Enjolras.”   

     Slowly pulling himself up, Enjolras shifts against Courfeyrac’s shoulder so he’s sitting as close to him as possible without being in his lap. It stings somewhere deep in Philippe’s chest that his own son needs that kind of security in his presence. Enjolras drops his gaze, eyes narrow in uncertainty, his mouth parted slightly, as he searches for an explanation, a memory that tells him he should’ve known to expect this. Tilting his head towards Courfeyrac, he signs something but the other boy can only shrug. Before translating, Courfeyrac puts a hand on Enjolras’ back, gentle and grounding. “He’s asking how long you’ve been here.”   

     “Only a few minutes.” Philippe smiles, part in amazement that his son survived and part disbelieving that he can actually reach out and touch him. But his son keeps his head down, turned towards Courfeyrac as if afraid of looking at Philippe. So he keeps his hands in his lap.   

     “We both want to know why you’re here,” Courfeyrac tells him. His voice starts to lose it’s edge as Enjolras continues to shift nervously.   

     “I want to apologize for not being there for you,” he explains to Enjolras, bending his head a little to stay in his focus but the boy only keeps his gaze down, studying his lap. Philippe glances to Courfeyrac and continues after a short nod. “I don’t have a good excuse, a good reason that would justify it. Nothing more than my own fear and self-preservation.”   

     Enjolras suddenly shifts back, looking up at his father. It startles Philippe, who assumed Enjolras wasn’t listening. Turning to Courfeyrac, Enjolras sets his focus on clarifying what his father just said.  _He never came?_

     Not expecting that, Courfeyrac swallows. He shakes his head. A shuddering, painful breath escapes Enjolras and it tears at Courfeyrac’s heart. In the sudden need to fix this, he finds himself siding Philippe the same way his anger faded with each minute his best friend started to grow more and more uncomfortable. He can justify the change of loyalties because in the end it can only be good for Enjolras to make up with his father. Enjolras shifts on the bed, subtly trying to glance to Philippe but never getting past his chest and finally sets his gaze to the carpet. “Hey, E.” Courfeyrac calls for his attention. He signs to keep the encouragement easy to understand and to themselves.  _I’m sure Combeferre knows he’s in here. There must be a reason._

     Ignoring the angry, hurt tears, Enjolras shakes his head. He had just assumed he didn’t remember his visits, like the many times Lamarque and Combeferre’s parents came to see him. Flashes of them in his hospital room crosses his vision every time he tries to remember the visits. But his mom does too, so not only does it hurt to think about but it’s unreliable. In a need to push the loneliness to anger, he tells Courfeyrac, _I don’t want to see him._    

     _Give him a chance._    

     “Never!” Enjolras shouts, angry both at his own dad and his friend for needing to be reminded that.    

     “That’s why I’m here,” Philippe explains. He sits on the edge of the bed, quickly feeling his opportunity slipping away. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can say to excuse that but I want to make sure you’re okay.”   

     “I'm fine,” snaps Enjolras. He pulls his knees to his chest, trying to get as far from the man as he can. It’s harder with his arm pinned in the brace. When he shifts closer to Courfeyrac, his friend, again, wraps an arm around his shoulders. It releases some of the tight anger bundled in his chest. For a moment, knowing Courfeyrac is still on his side makes the fact that his dad never came to see him easier to come to terms with.   

     “Here.” The man hands him the check, then gives it to Courfeyrac when Enjolras doesn’t reach for it. “I want to give you this. I couldn’t be there for you but I can help make sure you’re safe and secure.”   

     “Holy shit.” Courfeyrac gasps as he reads the number. Tilting it for Enjolras to see, he says,  _That’s enough to pay all of your medical bills and buy a yacht._

      _I don’t need a yacht_. It’s said with as much bitterness as he can manage with one handed sign language. He looks out the window with idealistic hopes that this will be the end of the conversation and his dad will leave.    

     After a long silent minute, he turns back to cower a little at the serious look Courfeyrac gives him.  _But you do need to pay those bills. And medicine, speech lessons, physical therapy, rent, food._

    _I’ll go back to work_ , he tells him dismissively.    

     Courfeyrac’s shoulders drop with a deep sigh. He shifts so he’s sitting directly across from Enjolras. Shaking his head, he slowly signs,  _Even with the same job you had, it would take two decades to pay it all off. And you know the chance of getting the same job._ Enjolras looks to the window, this time to hide the tears falling down his cheeks. Softly, Courfeyrac reminds him, “We’ve talked about this, E.”   

     “What is he saying?” Philippe asks eagerly. “What’s going on?”   

     “He’s debating whether or not he needs it,” Courfeyrac explains quietly. His eyes never leave Enjolras’ profile, feeling the desire to tackle him in a hug. He resists it, though, because this check can fix everything. This check is a godsend, a gift for all of the pain Enjolras has gone through and all of the good he’s done.   

     Philippe knits his brow. “But he does need it.”   

     “I know. So does he.”   

     “Then why the debate?”   

     Courfeyrac rubs circles on Enjolras’ back. “He doesn’t want to need it. It’s not a particularly easy thing to come to terms with.”   

     “Then keep it and deposit it whenever you want,” decides Philippe. “Donate it. Rip it up. Whatever you choose to do with it, it’s yours.” Enjolras doesn’t look away from the window, more tears falling steadily now. The man hesitantly reaches out for him but pulls back. Instead, he promises, “If you rip it up right now but decide you want it later, just call me and I’ll bring another one by. The money is yours. I have an account set up for you. You won’t have to worry about it ever again.”   

     “He wants to go back to work,” Courfeyrac tells him, trying to briefly explain the issue they’ve been trying to get through to Enjolras. Killing the idea that he’ll be able to fall back into the life he had before June is harder to see than the confusion or the exhaustion. He can’t assist on court cases when he can’t remember what apartment number they live in.    

     “Can he?”   

     The only answer is an almost unnoticeable shake of his head. Shifting closer to his son brings Enjolras’ attention back to the others in the room. He stands up, putting as much distance between himself and his father as he can, only stopping when he backs into the opposite wall. In a sudden burst of anger, he grabs the closest thing he can reach, a wooden picture frame, and throws it as hard as he can at the wall. It dents the drywall and shatters on the floor. “No!” He shouts. “No! I’m okay. Going to be okay.”    

     Combeferre steps into the room, taking in the scene with a carefully neutral expression. He shares a look with Courfeyrac before stepping towards Enjolras. Before he can say anything, before he can help calm Enjolras down, the blond stalks across the room and takes the check from Courfeyrac. Enjolras forces it into Combeferre’s hands. He takes the time to smooth out the paper before looking back to Enjolras. “What do you want me to do with it?”   

     “Les Amis. Put there.”   

     “To do what? Enjolras, that money’s going to be used to pay for MRI’s and physical therapy. That money’s yours. That money is all you have right now.”   

     Offended, Enjolras shakes his head. “No. It’s Les Amis.”   

     “Not anymore,” Combeferre tells him sympathetically. “I’m sorry but we have to talk about this. We have to consider this.”   

     “No!”   

     “Yes! Because you can’t say no.” He yells louder, successfully startling Enjolras into silence. “You don’t have insurance. You don’t have any other way to pay for everything that you owe. It’s Les Amis and loans from my parents, that’s what’s left right now. Why can’t we take it?”  

     “I will work,” Enjolras says weakly.    

     “We can’t rely on that. Even with a full salary, the amount we owe to the hospital is overwhelming. If we combined all of our salaries, we still couldn’t pay for half.”   

     Enjolras knits his brow at the clever wording. It’s manipulative but necessary, Combeferre tells himself, and it works as Enjolras steps towards him. He’s calmer and listening, being pushed towards the solution that really is his only chance. “No. No you don’t pay.”   

     “There’s nothing left, Enjolras.” He softens his voice. “You can’t do this alone. It’s either us or this. So you tell me what you want to do and I’ll happily help you do it.”   

     “I want to work.”   

     “That’s not an option right now.”   

     “Repeat?” Enjolras’ hand shakes so he grabs onto a strap of his black brace, trying to calm the growing panic.    

     Combeferre tells him the first opinion, a few beats slower this time. “We all put in money to help you.”   

     “No.” He immediately shakes his head, refusing to pull his friends any further into his own mistake.   

     “Or we use this check.”   

     “No. No, not you.”   

     “So the check, then.”   

     Enjolras takes a step closer to Combeferre, tears blurring his vision. His voice shakes as his breathing starts to get more frantic. “I don’t- I want. I can’t work?”   

     “Not for several months.” In contrast to Enjolras’ quickly growing distress, his own voice softens until it’s barely enough for Courfeyrac and Philippe to hear. No one listening in from the living room can make out the words. “If at all. I’m sorry but we have to start considering that you may never be able to work.”    

     Unable to process the panic, to concede to the fact that he’s truly lost that life, Enjolras drops to his knees. His hand covers his eyes as he sobs, feeling completely helpless. Combeferre follows him to the floor and instantly wraps his arms around his best friend. The cries are loud and painful, echoing in the silent apartment and bringing the others to tears of their own. As Combeferre keeps Enjolras tight in his embrace, Courfeyrac pulls Philippe out of the room. Everyone is sitting on the couches, quietly pretending to be focused on other things.    

     “I want to see him,” Philippe demands, pulling his arm out of Courfeyrac’s grip. He glances back to the door that hides his heartbroken son. “What was that? Is he okay?”   

     Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. He wishes he was the one comforting Enjolras instead of dealing with an ill-informed, mostly absent father who, for some reason, has decided to weave himself back into Enjolras’ life. “He’s just starting to wrap his mind around the fact that he’ll never have the life he had before, that this brain damage is never going away. How would you react to it?” His voice is sharper than he intends so he forces himself to look away and take a deep breath, calming down. Enjolras needs his dad more than ever and Philippe not only seems to know that but is happy to be there for him. It’s not Courfeyrac’s place to push him away. “Look, we’ve read about this and it’s rather normal. It should happen less often the more he falls into a routine and the more familiar his life starts to become now that he’s out of the hospital. But thank you. I don’t know if you can ever understand the burden you’ve lifted with that check.”   

     “So he’ll take it? He’ll use it?” The man asks eagerly. It’s the first time he looks like a worried father in all of the years Courfeyrac has known him. Although as he thinks about those years, this is the longest he’s been around Philippe.   

     “He doesn’t have any other options. The good thing is that it’s more than enough to give him the opportunity to donate some. We’ll make sure he keeps enough to stay financially secure for the rest of his life but he’ll feel better about taking it if he can help too.”   

     After a thoughtful moment, Philippe smiles. “I’ll fix that.”   

     “Fix what?”   

     “I’ve already set up a bank account for him. I can give you and Combeferre the information and access to it but I’ll give him stock. So he’ll continue to get interest over the years, meaning he won’t be on a fixed income type situation.”   

     “You’re giving him millions. I mean, millions.” Courfeyrac reminds him, feeling paralyzed in his shock at the numbers. Hearing it out loud makes it sound silly. Who just gets and gives millions of dollars away? How long will it take them to realize this is real when they went from scraping pennies out of fountains to being able to buy a private island in a matter of minutes? When he thinks about it, Courfeyrac doesn’t care because this saves Enjolras.   

     “And it doesn’t change anything in my company because I’ll just give him a portion of my own or simply buy out a small partner. He can set up charities, be a philanthropist. He can still help people but now in a safer environment.”   

     Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side, studying the man’s face. There’s a light in Philippe’s eyes that makes him uncomfortable, then angry. “Are you glad this happened?”   

     “No. Well, maybe a little. I never would have wished this upon him. Not in a million years, no matter how well he could push my buttons. But now he’s not going to get arrested for assaulting a cop or starting a riot. Now he’ll have the comfort of the money I can afford to give him. He can even go back to school,” he adds excitedly as he remembers it. His voice is an odd mixture of enthusiasm and professionalism, like he’s working through a new prospect for his company and not his son’s future. “I spoke to Colombia the other day and they have programs for students with disabilities. Classes can be taught with a sign language interpreter, have extended due dates, give him a personal counselor to help him with whatever he may need, whether he goes for a degree or not. It’s a big adjustment, I mean it’s brain trauma for fucks sake, but his life isn’t over. He doesn’t have to just waste away. He can still learn and help and change the world, just by a different path. Although it will be layered with difficulties, it’ll be one of financial security, a warm bed, and all of you.”   

     “You called Colombia?”   

     “Yes. It was his fall back school so he was accepted a few years ago and must have at least considered going there at one point. Besides, if he does go back to school, he’s probably not going all the way to Princeton.”   

     For a long minute, Courfeyrac just stares at him. His mouth hangs open a little, his eyes squinted, and his brain slowly wrapping around what the man just said. He looks away, eyes still narrow in his confusion, then looks back to Philippe. “Colombia?”   

     “Yes,” Philippe says softer with just a hint of uncertainty as to what reaction Courfeyrac is heading towards. “He’s not admitted, of course. He’d need an interview and medical files but it’s possible. Based on the fact that he was admitted six years ago, he’ll be accepted again or else they’d be hearing from my lawyer. Should he want to, of course.”   

     “Colombia?” Courfeyrac repeats, this time with a small, disbelieving laugh. He looks over the faces of his friends watching carefully. “Colombia. That’s a great idea. School? He’d love that. Especially if he can help organize a charity and maybe work part-time for Lamarque. Colombia.”   

     Growing serious, he looks to Philippe. In a sudden rush of emotion, he wraps his arms around the man’s shoulders in a tight hug. It takes a moment but eventually Philippe hugs him back. They’re still embracing when Combeferre steps out of Courfeyrac’s bedroom. Philippe parts as soon as he notices the boy. “Is he okay?”   

     “He’s fine but can you sit with him, Grantaire? I need to talk with Courfeyrac.” He asks quietly, putting a hand on his girlfriend’s arm as she walks to his side.    

     Grantaire looks startled by the request. “Me?”   

     “Yes, you.” The _dumb ass_ isn’t added but the tone says it well enough.   

     He doesn’t move towards the bedroom until Jehan commands in a rather stern whisper, “Don’t question it. Just go.”   

     When Grantaire closes the door behind him, Combeferre asks Éponine to put on a pot of tea, then steps towards his best friend’s father. “I’m sorry that was his reaction but thank you. Enjolras may not realize it right now but this opens a lot of doors for him.”   

     “I’m grateful I can help. I want to help. I want him to know that I’m here for him.” Philippe glances to Courfeyrac’s bedroom door.   

     “He’ll understand in time,” Combeferre reassures. There’s a small moment of appreciative silence broken by a hard punch from Courfeyrac. Holding his arm, Combeferre glares at him. “Ow. What the fuck was that for?”   

     “Colombia.” Courfeyrac leans in, tapping Combeferre’s nose like it emphasizes his point.   

     “What?” 

     “Colombia!”    

     Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Just because he has money doesn’t mean he’s able to travel. It’ll be weeks before he’s even cleared to fly.”   

     “No. No, Colombia University. They have programs for people with disabilities and he can afford it now.”    

     “School?” He questions with a laugh. Courfeyrac nods and Combeferre’s smile drops. “Do you really think he’d be able to study at a top ten university in six months?”   

     “They have special programs,” explains Philippe.   

     Looking at the man in disbelief, Combeferre shakes his head. “He can’t tie his own shoes right now.”   

     “You’re the one that told me not to underestimate him,” the man reminds him with a small smile. Combeferre’s gaze drops in guilt.    

     “Look, it’s just an idea,” Courfeyrac says in a gentler tone. “And a possible one at that, now.”   

     With a deep breath, Combeferre looks up and nods. He offers his hand to his best friend’s dad. “Yes. Thank you, Philippe.”   

     “Please keep me updated, if you can. And tell Enjolras that I would love to see him again. Maybe we can get dinner or something. I have some time to make up for.” Philippe shakes Courfeyrac’s hand, then sends one last look to the bedroom. For a moment, it’s desperate enough to almost convince Combeferre to give Philippe a second chance with Enjolras. But if he’s right, Grantaire either managed to get Enjolras back to sleep or is distracting him somehow. It doesn’t matter how apprehensive Combeferre is with that potential relationship, especially with the kiss Enjolras doesn’t seem to remember. Combeferre can’t deny that he’s just happier around Grantaire. As long as that stays true, he’ll keep his fears to himself and, like today, maybe even encourage it a little.   

     Éponine’s voice calls out, stopping Philippe before he closes the door. The man turns to look at her, narrows his eyes as she hands him the sleek black phone. “You dropped this.”       

     “Thank you.” He takes the phone, his eyes glancing around all of the young faces watching him.    

     “There’s a cafe called the Musain,” Éponine says suddenly. Her voice is almost too low for the others to hear. “It’s only a few blocks from here, meaning Enjolras can easily walk there for coffee.”   

     A small, surprised smile grows on his face. Grateful tears fill his blue eyes and threaten to fall. He leans close to her. "Do you think he will?"

     "I can be very convincing."

     “Please, just let me know when.”

     She smirks. “I already have your phone number.”

     He laughs, quickly and quietly thanks her, then leaves because he can’t keep the tears back any longer.


	41. February 8/9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY! I know this took me a crazy amount of time to finally post. I had surgery a few weeks ago, then got the flu so I lost some time on writing but I'm back and should be updating faster and more frequently, I promise. As for the other stories I am writing, I am still writing those! For the one, it's nearing the end so I don't think I quite want to finish it but I will and I will soon. For the other one, I had to figure out where I was going with it and now I've got it so it will be updated soon. 
> 
> Again, sorry! This one is pretty long so hopefully it makes up from the ridiculous time!
> 
> I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday!

         There’s a sudden silence in the apartment. Hearing only Marius on the other end of the phone, Courfeyrac looks up to the kitchen where Combeferre is calmly pouring soup into three bowls. It's an odd, carefully maintained kind of control that Courfeyrac can only shake his head at. He watches his friend for a long moment before glancing over his shoulder to glance into Enjolras’ bedroom. Enjolras is peaking around the thick quilt over his window with a curious expression until the bright sun gets too painful and he steps away, rubbing his eyes. Forgetting about the phone call, Marius won’t mind, Courfeyrac hangs up and watches as he paces around the room. He desperately hopes Enjolras will just curl up in bed and go to sleep but his friend is looking for a distraction instead. It doesn't surprise him. Enjolras studies the stacks of sketchbooks on his bookshelf, picks up a few paper cranes, smiles at a picture, then moves back to his bed with a new book.

     He’s confined himself to his room in an attempt to avoid Combeferre as he has decided he no longer needs his medications. Apparently, Enjolras doesn’t think he needs the vitamins, the help gaining weight, the help sleeping, or the boost to his immune system. The one thing he would want is the pain relief for his wrist and the sharp headaches but lucky for Combeferre, Enjolras doesn’t know which pill is the pain medication.

     It’s been four days since Enjolras last took the prescribed medicines. Clearly, there’s a connection with this decision and his father’s visit. Courfeyrac can understand it. Enjolras has a plan now, charities to start, school to consider, a potential relationship, a life to build and he’ll be damned if a headache or nausea keeps him from that. On the other side of that, Courfeyrac can understand Combeferre’s growing frustration. The medicines are important, necessary even. That life Enjolras is hoping for can’t start until he’s physically ready for it. With the medicine, it’ll be months. Without them, he could end up back in the hospital.   

     Every now and then, he’ll catch Combeferre glaring at the little pill sorter with the days of the week stamped on top. His focus and anger seem strong enough to force the pills from the last four days to simply disappear. It’s as easy to see his concern as it is to see the exhaustion on Enjolras’ face. Cutting himself off the drugs for the first time in eight months is taking a dramatic toll on him just as is his stubbornness is pushing Combeferre to the edge. Stuck in the middle, a reasonable voice for both arguments, Courfeyrac has decided to work from home so he can be there when something inevitably gives. Until then, there’s not much he can do.   

     He owes Lamarque the biggest _thank you_ cake he can find for being so lenient and the man only ever asks him to bring Enjolras by. That may be a good thing to do soon. It would give Combeferre a break, maybe allow him the chance to do something twenty-four year olds are supposed to do like hang out with their girlfriend or go out for a few drinks. Spending all day with Enjolras, helping him with speech lessons and forcing him to eat may be what Combeferre wants to do but it sure as hell isn’t what he needs. Not right now, anyway. Two weeks into being home and Combeferre has spent every minute with Enjolras. He seems as torn as Enjolras because he’s either cautiously watching him or pushing him forward, snuggling with him or shoving speech cards in his face. Either Combeferre was sensing the stubbornness coming and was trying to get as far as possible before Enjolras dug his feet in or the stress of the last two weeks has forced him to his own patient limit.   

     Courfeyrac almost called Grantaire to see if the man could possibly diffuse the tension. Maybe a couple hours apart could settle the building exasperation between Combeferre and Enjolras. But it’s not fair to put him in a situation as delicate as this is becoming. It could hurt the relationship he’s building with Enjolras if he sides with Combeferre but it could do so much more damage if he sided with Enjolras and Enjolras ended up back in the hospital. Still, he considers it. Whatever their relationship is, Courfeyrac likes it. Grantaire is the only one who constantly smiles at Enjolras like he did before the accident. It’s not the small, amazed smile that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are guilty of or the delighted, surprised smiles of their other friends. He’s the only one that really seems to forget about the scars.   

     Enjolras continues to battle the desire to lead the life he had before the accident with the limitations of the brain damage and now the life he wants with the impatience of waiting for it. With Grantaire, those struggles blend into one life. He doesn’t seem fazed by the aphasia or the mood swings, the exhaustion or confusion. It’s as if Enjolras forces himself to move more, talk more, be more than what he fears he is at times. When at home, he relies more on Combeferre and Courfeyrac than he does with Grantaire. Combeferre has almost completely stopped using sign language in hopes of forcing Enjolras to speak more but it only sends him to Courfeyrac, who has to use it if he has any hopes of Enjolras understanding his accent. And, admittedly, Courfeyrac may indulge him a little more than he should. It’s too hard to watch Enjolras struggle and know that he could help with a hug or a short explanation. Grantaire some how manages to find that perfect balance between helping and encouraging.    

     “Enjolras, lunch is ready,” Combeferre calls, breaking the silence in the apartment. His voice is loud but light. None of the edge can be detected and Courfeyrac commends him for being so optimistic each time he tries to get Enjolras to eat, sleep, or speak.    

     He watches as Enjolras glances to the wall between his room and the kitchen but makes no move to respond. When Combeferre looks to him, Courfeyrac can only shrug. “He’ll eat when he’s hungry.”   

     “He’s never hungry.”   

     “Because the medicine makes him nauseous.” Courfeyrac probably wouldn’t take the pills either if they forced him to keep the little white trash can within arms reach. Although they probably have a better understanding of why they’re forcing him to take the medicine. Feeling caught, he adds, “He didn’t eat breakfast either.”   

     “He can’t keep this up.” Combeferre shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, then walks to Enjolras’ bedroom with a plan. The resolution in his glare makes Courfeyrac anxious. Leaning against the door frame, Combeferre sets Enjolras with that sharp glare. Enjolras looks up from the book in his hands but immediately drops his gaze to the cat curled up on his lap. “Lunch is ready.”   

     After a short shake of his head, Enjolras softly says, “Don’t want.”

     "Don’t want what?” Combeferre asks, forcing him to use more words. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. If they want to get anywhere today with Enjolras, they have to pick their battles carefully. The medicine is more important so don’t force him to struggle with his speech. It’ll only make him more upset, making it all the more difficult to get him to give in.

     Enjolras finally looks back up to him. His eyes are wide, his expression worrisome as if he’s sensing a fight but isn’t quite sure if he should be angry or defensive yet. “Don’t want lunch.”   

     “Why not?”   

     “I’m not hungry.”   

     “I don’t care,” Combeferre decides firmly. Behind him Courfeyrac sighs loudly enough for his friend to hear because this is exactly what he was waiting for. Combeferre isn’t going to take no for an answer and Enjolras isn’t going to give in. The few times this has happened before, neither won and that was without the lack of sleep, brain damage, and potential hospitalization. 

     "What?” Enjolras shifts nervously on the bed.    

     “You’re going to eat. It’s soup and it’s delicious. Come on. Come eat lunch with us.” He steps to the side, part in giving Enjolras a path out of his room and part to show Courfeyrac. It’s a dirty, manipulative trick to show Courfeyrac is siding with him and not Enjolras. Although he doesn’t agree with it, Courfeyrac can’t say he wouldn’t do the same thing. The goal is critical but the approach is all wrong. Courfeyrac wonders who is more exhausted and who would benefit more from Enjolras taking the medicine because right now his money’s on Combeferre. It may even prevent the aneurysm he’s starting to give himself by worrying.

     “Not hungry.”    

     “I don’t care. Come eat.”   

     “No.”    

     Combeferre takes a step into his room, now on the offense. “Enjolras, you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. If you don’t weigh enough, you’re not coming home.”   

     “Don’t scare him, Ferre,” Courfeyrac chides softly from behind his friend.    

     “I’m not wrong.” He turns to defend himself, his voice matching the volume of Courfeyrac’s but none of it’s gentleness.    

     “No but you’re twisting your words. He would have had to lost fifteen pounds in the last two weeks. That’s almost impossible.”   

     “But if he keeps this up, it’s going to happen eventually.”   

     “Just- just cause I,” Enjolras stutters as he climbs off the bed. The cat runs into the living room and disappears into Courfeyrac’s bedroom. Enjolras’ own voice is still quiet, aiming to explain it all to Combeferre because certainly in his mind his actions are easily justified. “It’s just- I just. I’m not hungry.”   

     “It doesn’t matter, Enjolras. If you don’t take the medicine and you continue to not eat, you will end up back in the hospital. Do you want to go back?”   

     “Back?”   

     “To the hospital.”   

     “No. No, please.” Enjolras takes a step back in fear. It tears at Courfeyrac’s heart. For a moment, he debates pushing Combeferre aside and wrapping his arms around Enjolras. He doesn’t, though, because Enjolras does need the medicine and he needs to eat and Combeferre really is doing this for the right reasons.   

     Combeferre smiles at Enjolras. “So let’s just eat something, take the medicine, and move on.”    

     Something sparks in Enjolras’ eyes, his jaw setting. It scares Courfeyrac because they’re missing something. There’s something he’s tried to tell them but went unnoticed and now he’s pissed. The fact that Enjolras probably thinks they’ve decided to ignore it, whatever his main reason is, makes him sick to his stomach because that’s not right. But it’s too late to step in and figure it out because Enjolras takes a step towards Combeferre with sharp eyes and there’s no turning back. _I’m not going to eat if I’m not hungry._    

     “You are going to eat because you need to take your medicine,” Combeferre counters. “Make all the excuses you want, Enjolras, but you will take your medicine and you will eat. I’m sick and tired of watching you fight this.”   

 _I don’t need it._    

     “Use your words,” Combeferre demands sharply. He stares at Enjolras, who winces a little at the stern tone. Any hope of this being a small skirmish fades. Courfeyrac steps back, removing himself from the two sides and waits for the right moment to step in.   

     Enjolras stutters over his words as he fights for control against his emotions. The sudden urge to push his friends out of the room conflicts violently with the desire to fall into their arms. The internal clash brings a painful shake through his chest and arms, bottom lip trembling despite the force he bites down on it.    

     “No,” he finally manages to say. Combeferre raises his eyebrows but because Enjolras continues to speak, he assumes it’s a response to the command to take his medicine and not against using his words. Enjolras hears it so often at this point that it’s mostly conditioned, no matter what Courfeyrac says. “No. I don’t need.”   

     “You do need it,” Combeferre says softly, aiming to bring their tempers down. He doesn’t want a fight. Behind him, he can practically hear Courfeyrac’s silent commands to shut this down.   

     “No!” Enjolras shouts. “No! I don’t.”   

     Combeferre takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He knows Enjolras doesn’t want the medicine because it makes him nauseous and he knows he doesn’t want to sleep because he’s afraid of the nightmares but he also knows Enjolras is making himself sick from the exhaustion, from not eating, from avoiding the medicine that’s supposed to help him. The painful gasps, the dark circles under his eyes, and the pale skin makes him more and more determined. Combeferre knows he’s getting angry at Enjolras for the wrong reasons, that it’s not Enjolras’ he’s directly mad at. It’s the stupid fucking situation that is making him force his best friend to do something he doesn’t want. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. Knowing that doesn’t change the fact that Enjolras needs the medicine. “Enjolras, please trust me.”   

     “Listen!” Enjolras demands.    

     Courfeyrac steps forward but doesn’t say anything. With his voice just on the edge of snapping again, Combeferre explains his sympathy. “I know you don’t want it.”   

     “I won’t.” He’s shaking his head, frustration bubbling over into anger. If Combeferre won’t listen to him, then Combeferre can’t help him. “No medicine.”   

     “Just take the fucking pills Enjolras! Then this all gets better.”   

     “No!” Enjolras yells back. He pushes past his friend and into the living room. When he sees Courfeyrac, he pauses. The anger fades from his face as he begs for his help.    

     Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side. "Enjolras-"   

     "No!" He interrupts. He's not going to go from Combeferre to Courfeyrac only to be told the same thing. "I don’t need it! I don’t want it!”   

     “You do need it! Look at you, Enjolras,” Combeferre says. He feels his chest heaving in anger. “You’re sick and you’re hurting. You can’t simply avoid this. All it’s going to accomplish is landing you back in the hospital!”   

     Enjolras turns on his heel to face him. His eyes are narrow and his jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”   

     “You’re fine?” Combeferre asks. It's dangerously calm. Courfeyrac shifts on his feet. Sensing the challenge, Enjolras takes a threatening step towards him but Combeferre doesn’t back down. He meets his glare with a threat of his own. He signs it as well of saying it in the even, low tone he rarely uses. “I’m not going to continue to fight you on this. If you really think you’re fine, then I’m done helping you.”   

     Enjolras’ eyes widen just long enough for the other two to catch the fear before he huffs out a breath and storms back to his room, shouting that he’s fine one last time before slamming the door. When the echo ends, the apartment falls silent. Combeferre stares at the door for several minutes, the emotions caught in his throat. He drops his gaze to the floor before storming off to his own bedroom to slam his own door. Courfeyrac looks between the two doors, struck dumb. With a sigh, he simply goes back to the table and sits down to finish as much work as he can, waiting for which ever friend to give in first.

  
    —————————————————————————-

  
     Combeferre wakes with a start, not realizing he had fallen asleep. It’s pitch dark in his room but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t have his glasses on. He’s also covered with a blanket. Courfeyrac must be responsible for how amazing he feels right now. For a moment it’s wonderful enough to forget about the fight he had with Enjolras. It’s not long until the memory comes back, the sound of his promise echoing in the dark room. Combeferre cringes, pulling the blanket over his head as he wishes it was all a nightmare. That would be too ideal, though, because he hasn’t had a bloodless nightmare in months. After several deep, measured breaths he pushes himself out of the bed and finds his glasses. He’s not sure what his next step is but if it’s apologizing or reinforcing his promise, he needs to know what Enjolras is doing.    

     The apartment is just as dark as his room was and he realizes it’s just past one o’clock in the morning. He can’t remember the last time he slept that long. That probably has more to do with how good he feels than just the blanket Courfeyrac kindly covered him with. Despite how energized and rested he feels, with each step, his fear grows darker because he can see that Enjolras’ light is still on and as he gets closer, he can hear his friend moving. From what he can tell, as he presses his ear against the door, it sounds like Enjolras is pacing, maybe even talking to himself or listening to something that’s bringing a long string of mumbled commentary. At one o’clock in the morning. Combeferre shakes his head.   

     “What happened to not helping?” Courfeyrac asks from over the back of his armchair. It scares Combeferre two feet into the air. He can only see the top half of his friend’s face but it’s enough for him to glare at. Any calm sleep left him with fades and the anger, guilt, and frustration from earlier comes flooding back.    

     “What the fuck, Courf!” He hisses with a hand over his chest to try and calm his pounding heart. After one last look to Enjolras’ door, Combeferre falls onto the couch across from Courfeyrac. Even in the dark he can see Courfeyrac’s questioning look. It sharpens his anger and his response is bitter. “I’m wasn’t going to help. I was serious, I’m not backing down.” Quieter he adds, “I was just checking.”   

     Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. The cat is curled up on his lap, happily sleeping. “That fight was stupid.”   

     “It was necessary.”   

     “You’re both exhausted and neither of you are listening to the other. No matter the reason, it was fucking stupid.”   

     He straightens on the couch to defend himself. “I’m not-”   

     “You slept for eleven hours, Ferre.” Courfeyrac interrupts him with an annoying confidence that comes from knowing he’s right. “You don’t have a place to stand.”   

     Combeferre looks away. They fall quiet for a long moment before he sighs. “What are you doing in the dark?”   

     “I fell asleep reading,” explains Courfeyrac.    

     A few minutes pass silently. A thud echoes from Enjolras’ bedroom, the sound of him tripping or a book falling. Combeferre rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Has he stopped?”   

     “Not from what I can tell. I offered him some soup a few hours ago, hoping he’d give in, but he just asked me to take off the brace and then ignored me.”   

     “You took off his brace?”   

     “What harm is it going to do? He shouldn’t be wearing it anyway. And he’s still in a hard cast so it’s not like he’s going to break it again.”   

     If Combeferre wasn’t so angry, he might have noticed just how exhausted his friend sounds. Instead he focuses on strengthening his arguments. “He’s not strong enough to use his right arm yet. It’s going to hurt like hell.”   

     “It wouldn’t hurt if you gave him the pain medication.”   

     “He’s not going to get that and just ignore the other ones.”   

     “So you’re okay with him avoiding the use of his right hand if it means you eventually win?” Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows when Combeferre doesn’t shoot back a response. “I’m telling you, Ferre. That fight was stupid.”   

     “He’s being stubborn.”   

     “He’s mad. We’re missing something,” Courfeyrac says with a pointed look to Combeferre. It’s sharp and knowing, demanding Combeferre to admit there’s a problem, that there’s something more than just Enjolras being head-strong.    

     Unable to agree with him, Combeferre ignores him. If there’s more, if he’s missing something than it means he fucked up to the point of pushing Enjolras away in a promise of leaving. That’s not true because he’s right. If he’s wrong, there could be lasting repercussions. He has to be right because he can’t lose Enjolras just because he was exhausted and said stupid things. Enjolras will realize he needs to take the medicine and they’ll move past this as a little moment of disagreement. He turns the conversation around, accusing Courfeyrac to deflect the responsibility. It’s a last ditched effort to convince himself he was right. “You need to stop signing with him.”   

     Courfeyrac blinks at him. The shock in his face almost makes Combeferre retract the statement. “You're asking me to lose the only way of communicating I have with him.”   

     “He can get used to your accent.”    

     “I won't do it.”   

     “You're damaging his progress.”   

     “How are you seriously asking me to do that? Jesus Christ, Combeferre!” He manages to snap at him with all the force of his anger while keeping his voice too soft for Enjolras to hear just a few yards away. “Remove yourself from doctor mode for two fucking seconds and see that we're missing something. This isn’t about me signing to him or the fact that he’s doing it just to be stubborn.”   

     Combeferre catches himself narrow his eyes aggressively, then softens his expression with the goal to keep a second fight from gaining momentum. “I get why he doesn't want-”   

     “Do you?” He interrupts, raising his eyebrows doubtfully. “Explain it to me then. Tell me what he told you when you asked him.”   

     “It makes him sick and-”   

     “He told you that?”   

     “No,” he says slowly. In a flash of the last week he can’t remember one time where Enjolras even tried to give him an explanation. “It's obvious. You can see it.”   

     “Have you asked him why he’s not taking it?” He waits for Combeferre to answer. When Combeferre only drops his head, either realizing his point or racking his memory for a specific moment, Courfeyrac sighs and falls back in his chair. “Like I said. We're missing something.”   

     Angry, Combeferre looks up and glares at his friend. He doesn’t want to be the only one feeling guilty. “Then what are you doing out here? I never thought you’d be able to just sit here, listening to him cry by himself.”   

     Where Courfeyrac shakes his head against the low shot, he still answers. “I agree with you. He needs the medicine. But I also understand that he doesn’t want it, for whatever reason we are definitely missing, and the fact that it makes him sick. It makes him drowsy, dizzy, makes it harder to focus. It threatens to remove him from a life he already struggles to participate in. And that’s just what we can see, who knows what else is going on.”   

     “With all that, you can find the self-control to stay away from him?”   

     “Look, I can see that you feel guilty right now and I understand it but that doesn’t give you the right to be a dick to me,” Courfeyrac states before answering his question. There’s a flash of regret across Combeferre’s face that shows Courfeyrac that his comment landed. “It’s not my place.”   

     “Your place?”   

     “You gave him the ultimatum and you’re the one with him all day. You take him to the doctors appointments, speech lessons, keep up with his medicine and progress. It's your choice to stand your ground or give in. I think that’s one of the reasons you fought today,” he adds as an afterthought. “You can’t take on all of that responsibility. You can’t give him your entire life, no matter how much you feel you owe it to him.”   

     “I don’t feel like I owe him that. He needs me to do those things.”   

     “You weren’t in the right place and he fell. You didn’t protect him and now he’s going to struggle for the rest of his life because of that one day.” Courfeyrac leans closer to him. “Do not tell me that I don’t understand your guilt.”

     Combeferre knits his brow, shocked by the power in his voice, at the strength in the demand. Then he makes the connection. “You knew," he says. "You knew he was planning on climbing up that god damn statue.”   

     He takes a long moment of scratching behind Dante’s soft ears before answering. Combeferre’s anger fades as he recognizes the attempt to regain composure. It’s the same intense focus he uses after he wakes up screaming. “He mentioned it. I had agreed with him. He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want you up there with him. He was afraid that you’d fall.” Courfeyrac runs his hand over his face as a bitter laugh fills the quiet apartment. “I made him promise to keep on hand on the statute at all times. We didn’t plan for a baton. I never ever thought to plan for this.”   

     It makes sense. Combeferre’s need to make sure Enjolras is protected in every way he can control and Courfeyrac’s constant need to make him laugh, make him feel safe and reassured. Along with their personalities leaning towards those specific ways of helping, they’re both driven by the failure of what they should have done in June. Combeferre studies his friend’s face, never even considering that Courfeyrac could be dealing with that kind of regret. “I’m sorry.”   

     Courfeyrac shrugs. “There’s nothing I can do about it now.”   

     “Why didn’t you say anything?”   

     “What difference does it make? Does it make you feel any less guilty? Does it make it any easier for him?”   

     “Have you talked to him about it?” Combeferre asks, seeing his own conversation with Enjolras. The scenario only ever ends with Enjolras looking at him in horror and pushing him away for letting this happen. So he’s surprised when Courfeyrac nods, then laughs.    

     “You know what that dumbass said? That he was right.”   

     Shock, anger, fear, and regret push for Combeferre’s attention. He’s not sure which emotion wins but he’s grateful for Courfeyrac’s silent understanding because tears fall down his cheeks. Courfeyrac rests his chin on the back cushions of the armchair, staring at Enjolras’ bedroom door. They don’t talk, both listening for clues to what Enjolras is doing. After half an hour, Courfeyrac falls asleep. Combeferre covers him with a blanket, making sure the cat can get out if he wants, before settling against the wall next to Enjolras’ closed door. His tears dry as he forces himself to remember this isn’t how the rest of Enjolras’ life is going to be. It’s not going to be a constant struggle. There will be hard days and difficult times but it’ll be good. He’ll be happy.    

     The clock ticks to three. For a long stretch of time, it’s silent in the apartment outside of Courfeyrac’s short snores from where he’s awkwardly asleep on the chair. As Combeferre stands up, he considers waking Courfeyrac up to encourage him to a bed or at least the couch. But first, because he can't help himself, he goes to cover Enjolras with a blanket so he doesn’t wake up cold. Much to his horror and disappointment, he doesn’t find Enjolras asleep. That would be too easy. Instead, Enjolras is curled up in the corner of his bedroom with his knees pulled up close to his chest and his arms resting on top of them. Tears run down his face where his cheek lies heavily on his crossed forearms. His eyes flicker up to Combeferre but he makes no other movement. Combeferre blinks at him, then leaves the room. Enjolras buries his face in his hands against the new, painful wave of tears.   

     The uncontrollable sobs fill the apartment and Combeferre forces himself to ignore the heartbreaking sound. Keeping himself on task, he runs through the list of things he’ll need. The dreadful medicine, a full water bottle, two pieces of toast with some peanut butter, his phone with an alarm for the morning, and the plastic trashcan in case he gets sick. Enjolras is still curled up against the wall when he returns to the room. He doesn’t move when Combeferre turns off the light to use the soft lamp instead. He doesn’t look up when Combeferre puts the supplies on the nightstand. Only when Combeferre bends to his level does Enjolras finally move. In a quick lunge, he falls into his friend’s chest and wraps his arms around Combeferre’s neck. Enjolras mumbles something through his choked cries. His breath and tears are hot on Combeferre’s shoulder. It’s too muffled and broken to be anything coherent but Combeferre doesn’t need to hear the words to know Enjolras is apologizing. Anger rises in his chest because Courfeyrac was right, he sure as hell didn’t win.    

     “It isn’t your fault,” Combeferre says as he squeezes his friend in the tight hug. He doesn’t want to part but eventually he steps back and sits Enjolras on the bed. Despite knowing Enjolras can’t understand him, he still explains himself. Enjolras watches him as he moves around the room, grabbing warm sweatpants, a thin t-shirt, and the arm brace that was thrown against the bookshelf. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m just worried that I’m not doing everything I’m supposed to be doing.”    

     Once Enjolras is changed into the softer clothes, there’s no fight in putting on the arm brace or taking the medicine. He simply follows along with Combeferre’s gentle instructions. As Combeferre picks up the pens and papers, books, clothes, and a few tossed blankets from the floor, Enjolras quietly eats the toast. His tendency to destroy his bedroom hasn’t changed since the accident and Combeferre finds himself picking it up at least once a day. A cluttered, messy room does nothing to help clear his mind.    

     He makes a mental note to talk about that with Enjolras but when he turns to see his friend, the words fade. The medicines are starting to kick in. Enjolras’ eyes are closed and he’s swaying a little on the edge of the bed. The heel of his hand is pressed against his forehead, his breathing is slower, and when he opens his eyes again there’s a despondent look across his face as he stares at the floor. To knowingly put himself further out of the world must be so terribly painful and to not understand the benefits, how can Combeferre be mad at him for fighting that?    

     Combeferre can only try to explain it, then comfort him through the symptoms. Maybe he can discuss this with the doctor tomorrow. There have to be alternatives they can try. He pulls back the quilts and then, with a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, he guides Enjolras back onto the bed. When he crawls in after him, Enjolras immediately curls up against his chest.    

     “I’m sorry,” Combeferre says again, kissing the top of the blond curls. “I’m sorry but it’s helping. I know it sucks but it’s going to keep you out of the hospital. It’s going to keep you home.”   

     Enjolras doesn’t respond. Combeferre didn’t except him to. There’s a soft sigh of relief as sleep finally takes hold and he relaxes against Combeferre, sinking into the reliable embrace. Ten hours in three days finally catches up. He doesn’t know how many hours he’s slept in the last few days because he’s too caught up watching Enjolras. Maybe Courfeyrac is right about releasing some of the control. Combeferre closes his eyes as he works through the options. He falls asleep before he finds a solution that doesn’t make his chest constrict with the thought of leaving.

 

—————————————————————————-

      
     There’s a hand on his shoulder, lightly shaking, and his first thought is that something’s wrong. He jolts up. There’s a fraction of a second where they nearly smack faces until the other person shifts back, saving them from at least a bloody nose. Combeferre blinks at him, squinting his eyes to see who is in front of him, then glances down at Enjolras. Nothing’s wrong because Courfeyrac is smiling at him and Enjolras is still sleeping. He falls back to his pillow with a sigh. There’s only one reason Courfeyrac would wake him up and if it’s true, it means he has to get up soon. He’s not ready to get up. It wouldn't be hard stay curled up next to Enlojlras all day. That’s his plan, that’s what he wants to do. He wouldn’t mind having Éponine here either. Or just Éponine. That would be ideal. But then he thinks of Enjolras sitting there alone, waiting for him to come back, and the thought is quickly shut down.   

     “Man, you need to relax,” Courfeyrac tells him softly. He hands Combeferre his glasses, then pulls the blanket further over Enjolras’ shoulders. Sitting on the middle of the bed, Courfeyrac forces Combeferre to shift against the wall. He leans over Enjolras’ shoulder to get a better look at his face, keeping a hand on Combeferre’s knee to steady himself.    

     Combeferre runs a hand through his hair, yawning. "What time is it?”

      “Eight-thirty.” He sinks back to face his friend. “You have a little over an hour before you have to leave. I can make breakfast.”   

     “Thanks, Courf.”   

     “Did he take the medicine?”   

     “Yeah and ate, too. I’m going to ask Larose about alternatives. There has to be something better.” Combeferre makes no move to get up until Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. He swats him away, half-heartedly, and can’t help but smile at the barely restrained grin on Courfeyrac’s face.   

     “That’s a great idea.”   

     “I know.” Combeferre shoves him off the bed. “Now go make food. I’m starving.”   

     Courfeyrac carefully crawls over Enjolras and off the bed, shoots Combeferre one last grin, then disappears. After a minute, Combeferre runs his hand under his glasses before turning to Enjolras. Through out their sleep he had rolled to his other side and is resting almost completely on his right arm. Combeferre’s first instinct is to wake him up to avoid hurting it more than the weight already has. He doesn’t move for several long minutes, torn between Courfeyrac’s advice to back off and the knowledge that if he stepped in, he could help. Finally he caves and gently pulls Enjolras’ shoulder back. Enjolras shifts, pulling his right arm to throw it over his head but because it's restrained by the brace, he ends up using his left arm instead. It still successfully covers his eyes from the lamp. Combeferre climbs off the bed, pulls the quilt up to his friend’s shoulder, then takes a shower.    

     Before getting the much anticipated food and coffee, he stops by Enjolras’ room. Enjolras is still sleeping with his arm over his eyes and it takes a few minutes of coaxing before he finally stirs. He smiles up at Combeferre when his vision clears enough to recognize his friend, then immediately frowns. “What?”   

     “I hate to do this but we have a doctor’s appointment in an hour.” Combeferre runs his hand through the long curls. Enjolras hums contently at the contact, closing his eyes and moving into his touch. “If you want to shower before, you need to get up now.”   

     “We have what?”   

     “A doctor’s appointment.”   

     It’s enough to convince Enjolras to open his eyes. He narrows them in thought. “Who?”   

     “Larose. Meaning all you need to do is stand there and answer a few questions.”   

     “Okay.” Enjolras nods, curling around his friend where he sits on the edge of the bed.   

     “Are you going to take a shower?”   

     “No.”   

     “No shower?”   

     “No.” Enjolras turns away from Combeferre to express his desire to keep sleeping and rolls to his stomach.    

     “Alright, then I’ll wake you up in half an hour and we’ll go. Okay?”   

     “Okay,” Enjolras mumbles into the pillow. He’s asleep before Combeferre leaves the room.    

     In the kitchen, Courfeyrac hands him a cup of hot coffee. Combeferre thanks him as he sits on a stool at the kitchen island. There’s an empty bowl, a box of cereal, and the carton of milk sitting out for him. After a long sip of coffee, which is as strong as he likes it, he sets about filling his bowl. “You’re too good to me, Courf. Exceeding expectations everyday.”   

     “Well I’m trying to keep you around.”   

     “You couldn’t have at least poured it into the bowl?”

      “I didn’t know how much you wanted,” Courfeyrac defends himself as he pours food into the silver bowl for the cat. Dante sniffs the food, meows loudly at Courfeyrac, then runs off to Enjolras’ room. He pulls himself onto the counter so he’s facing Combeferre. “We have an amazing night together and yet he runs off to Enjolras the first chance he gets. I feel so betrayed.”    

     “Well Enjolras is all warm and snuggly. I don’t blame him.” Combeferre catches the spoon Courfeyrac tosses him.    

     With a mouthful of cereal, Courfeyrac argues, “But I feed him. I’m the only one that remembers to fill his bowl.”   

     “The damn thing eats as often as Enjolras does.”   

     A quiet moment passes before Courfeyrac makes a thoughtful sound. “You know, I think Jehan hides treats for him.”   

     Combeferre looks up to him. The memory of the night before is too fresh in his well-rested mind to let him scowl but he gets pretty close to a bitter tone. “Is this your way of telling me he’s fine?”   

     “Enjolras? Yes, he is fine. And I found cat treats on my dresser the other day so I really do think someone’s hiding treats for Dante.” Courfeyrac’s smile is softened by Combeferre’s laugh. He waits a moment before reminding his friend, “You can’t spend every waking moment with him, Ferre.”   

     “I know. I get it.” Although it’s not defensive, it’s definitely a weaker statement than he’d like. It  completely fails to convince Courfeyrac of his understanding because they both know he doesn’t completely understand it. “But you can’t miss any more work. You’re already pushing your luck.”   

     “That’s such a shitty excuse. I’m a first year associate who is barely working enough to make part-time and yet Lamarque only ever asks me to bring Enjolras in. That means that he not only justifies the time I’m missing but probably defends it to the others because he wants to see Enjolras just as badly as we do. I should bring him in. Lamarque misses him, especially since he can’t just stop by the hospital I think it’s harder to excuse coming by here. That’s an entire morning so you can go out the night before with Éponine. Take her to dinner, spend the night at her place. Lord knows you haven’t exactly been an ideal boyfriend.”   

     “I’ve told her that it’ll be a while before I’m able to be involved. I’m sure it’s the same conversation you’ve had with Jehan.”   

     “I make it a point to see Jehan every other day. You can at least try to be a boyfriend. Pay her back for all the amazingness she is.”

     “I see Éponine just as often.”   

     “When was the last time you spent more than an hour with her without Enjolras around?”   

     Combeferre quietly glares at him for a moment. “Fine. Alright, I get it. We’ll do that next week. Let Lamarque know, figure out the day, and I’ll make reservations.”   

     “Great.” Courfeyrac puts his bowl in the sink. “So that’s one evening and morning you’re taking off. What about a more permanent solution?”   

     “What do you mean?”   

     “What about Grantaire?” He asks suddenly as if he hasn’t spend days thinking about this.   

     “What about him?”   

     “Well it isn’t particularly wise to leave Enjolras alone. Both health reasons and emotionally. Right?”   

     “Right.”   

     “What if he came over a few times a week? And not in the way everyone comes over with the excuse of bringing dinner and such. He’s looking for an excuse to be with Enjolras. What if you went out with Éponine or did other things and he hung out with Enjolras?”   

     Combeferre drops his focus to his breakfast. “Enjolras doesn’t need a babysitter.”   

     “Then what are you?”   

     “I’m his friend helping.”   

     “Then Grantaire would just be a potential significant other hanging out. It would be almost like they’re dating. You know as well as I do that it’s only a matter of time. And if Enjolras is happy with him then it frees your life up a little.”   

     “I don’t know.” Fear catches in his throat. “I don’t like it.”   

     “Why? I mean you’re barely confident enough in leaving him with me. We all know what to do. We all can sign so we can communicate with him. We all love Enjolras and have his best interests in mind. Grantaire basically makes his own schedule so it can be around your plans and if it makes you feel better you can write out a whole list of things he needs to know. He can send hourly updates.”

      “Why does he make his own schedule?”   

     Courfeyrac knits his brow. “What do you mean?”   

     “He has that much control at the bar?”   

     “Oh. No. He quit that job because he got hired by a gallery. Now he works on commissions and as long as he completes the work on time he’s free to set his own hours. See, Ferre! That’s the kind of things your missing out on. I understand that you want to be there for him but you can’t give up your entire life. As soon as he realizes it, he’s going to hate himself for that.”   

     “I’ll think about it,” is all Combeferre can give. He stands up with the excuse to wake up Enjolras. When Courfeyrac hops off the counter, giving him the time to finish breakfast, Combeferre shakes his head. “I’m fine. I’ll get him.”   

     “Why? What are you going to do that I wouldn’t? That I haven’t done?”    

     Combeferre doesn’t have an answer. He could say that Enjolras needs to dress warmly today but in layers in case he gets hot in the car but Courfeyrac knows that. It would be easier to get Enjolras up and out if he knows that it’s not a lesson but a basic check-up but Courfeyrac has seen various shades of Enjolras’ stubbornness and has successful ways of confronting him. There is nothing that he can or will do that Courfeyrac can’t do or wouldn’t think of. It’s not the thought of Courfeyrac helping that scares him but the fact that it wouldn’t be Combeferre that hurts to imagine. Softly he confesses, “I don’t want to pull back.”   

     “And that’s okay.” Courfeyrac smiles sympathetically.    

     “I don’t want to leave him.”   

     “You wouldn’t be leaving him. This isn’t like at the hospital, Ferre, but at one point he’s going to have to learn to get on without you. And you are going to need to find the balance between your life and his.”   

     “I have a life.”   

     “No you don’t.”   

     “It’s only been two weeks,” he tries to justify.    

     “And how many times have you been away from Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks. Before Combeferre can repeat that two weeks is a considerably short amount of time out of the hospital, he cuts him off. “I’m not telling you to stop being there for him. I’m saying that you have to let us share some of that. He still needs you and still loves you but he wants more of a life and you need more of a life.”   

     “You don’t think he has a life with what I’m doing?” The horror isn’t hard to hear so Courfeyrac leans across the kitchen island to explain his point. Combeferre hangs onto every word, completely focused on understanding the problem because then he can fix it. He can do more, be better for Enjolras.   

     “I think he has the exact life he’s capable of having at the moment and you do an incredible job of pushing him when he’s ready for it and comforting him when he needs it. But I don’t know how different that seems for him than when he was in the hospital. Think about what he does. He goes to speech lessons, doctor’s appointments, and the occasional walk through the city. The only difference now is that he’s in his own bed. I think that if he were to spend more time with Grantaire or go to bookstores with Jehan or little events of that sort that maybe he’ll start to feel like he has more of an active, normal life. Especially if he starts dating Grantaire.”   

     “Dating?” Combeferre laughs awkwardly. “Dating? Do you think they’re going to start dating?”   

     “I hope so.”   

     Combeferre’s face falls. “Why?”   

     “Why not? Grantaire adores him and Enjolras just smiles all the time around him. It’s the same way they were around each other before June, which is great because the brain damage didn’t scare Grantaire away. Now Enjolras is communicative enough to really explore a relationship.” He narrows his eyes at Combeferre. “Is that what this is about?”   

     “No. No, I’m just wary of how that works. You know, what happens when they fight? What happens if they’re making out? What happens when Grantaire wants to go out and Enjolras doesn’t but he gives him two options and Enjolras says the last one? Then he’s on the subway going to a party, panicking because he just wants to go home but Grantaire's not listening because he’s talking about how awesome this party that Enjolras doesn’t want to go to is going to be.” Combeferre nervously starts to work himself up. “What if Enjolras drinks at this party because he’s so upset and it destroys even more of his words? What if he leaves because he doesn’t want to be there and he gets lost in the city on the way home? He could get mugged, he could get arrested, he could get sick or freeze to death if it’s cold enough outside.”   

     Courfeyrac blinks at him. “Wow. You’ve thought about this so much that it’s spiraled to a horror show.” He thinks for a moment before sitting on the stool next to his friend. “Okay. So first off Grantaire and Enjolras will probably fight if they do start dating. But then again, you and Enjolras fought pretty viciously just a few hours ago so I’m not sure how that makes it a deal breaker. Second, I have complete faith that Enjolras is confident telling Grantaire how comfortable he is in exploring a physical relationship and Grantaire is not only good enough to back off but cares enough about E that he’ll be a perfect gentleman. I can’t imagine Grantaire would push Enjolras. In fact, I’d put money on the fact that Enjolras would want more but Grantaire will force them to go slow just to make sure. Grantaire, just like all of our other friends, knows not to give him an either or option and he knows that Enjolras isn’t allowed to drink. You know that he hasn’t drank since he gave him Dante, right? Well technically after they started enforcing the visiting hours rule. Jehan says he hasn’t touched a drop.”   

     “No.” Combeferre looks guilty. “No I didn’t know that.”   

     He bites back his smile. His friend looks like a worried parent being encourage to push his kid into the big, bad world. But he knows that Enjolras is more than strong enough to handle it and if he comes up against something he’s can’t handle yet, they’re both here for him. They’re all here for him. That’s what Combeferre is missing. “My opinion on the dating note is just that Grantaire and Enjolras are friends with the mutual desire to explore something more. Grantaire loves Enjolras and I don’t know if I can say that it’s the same kind of love we give him.”   

     “I don’t know how it’s going to play out so I don’t like it.” His voice grows stronger as he finds more strength in his stance. But he knows, by the look on Courfeyrac’s face, that he’s not going to win the argument.    

     “Where I think that’s a valid concern, is it really enough to keep it from happening?”   

     “No,” Combeferre snaps, more in his own frustration than anger at his friend. Knowing this, Courfeyrac only laughs. His face falls sincerely when Combeferre looks up at him again. There’s a heavy sadness in his eyes when he repeats, “I don’t want to pull away from him."   

     “You don’t have to. Just know that we are all here, waiting to take some of the weight for when you decide to step back,” Courfeyrac promises.    

     “I’ll think about it.”   

     “I think it can only help both of you,” he reiterates. It would be ridiculous to assume Combeferre would immediately start letting up but as long as he starts considering it, Courfeyrac is convinced they’ll eventually find a more balanced routine. Until then, he’ll continue to support Combeferre while still quietly reminding him that they’re ready to jump when he asks. "Now go get Enjolras because you’re going to be late.”   

     Combeferre laughs gratefully and hands him the bowl of now soggy cereal. Maybe they can grab some bagels on the way. Spending time apart is not giving up on Enjolras, he’s not abandoning him. He’s spending some time on his own, Combeferre repeats to himself. They didn’t spend every waking moment together before the accident. But then Enjolras could remember his own address. Just as it is with everything else, it’s not the same anymore. Enjolras is not the same anymore. None of them are. Despite the plan for his dinner with Éponine not being for another week, a sudden panic spreads through out his chest when he sees Enjolras. How can he leave him? Enjolras relies on him, needs him. And Courfeyrac thinks being apart can only help. Combeferre doesn’t understand it. He takes a moment to steady his breath and clear his eyes because he doesn’t have to go anywhere, he doesn’t have to leave. Not yet and not ever if he doesn’t want to. With the new confidence of this being his decision, Combeferre sits on the edge of the bed where both Enjolras and Dante are sleeping soundly. The kitten is curled up on the pillow between Enjolras’ chin and arm. Every few breaths Enjolras twitches his nose when the cat’s belly rises.    

     If they didn’t have an appointment and a critical one at that, Combeferre would happily let them sleep. There’s no question Enjolras needs it. But they’re fifteen minutes late for a critical doctor's appointment so he gently shakes Enjolras’ shoulder, calling his name. It doesn’t wake him up, only Dante who meows at Combeferre in his annoyance. After moving the cat away from Enjolras, Combeferre lightly pats his cheek. It takes a couple of minutes and more than a few calls to finally coax Enjolras to open his eyes. He squints against the light, a deep frown on his face that’s not far from the look Dante gave him, then shut after landing on Combeferre’s smiling face.   

     “I’m fine,” he reassures. It wouldn’t be the first time Combeferre raced into his room after a nightmare but it’s more common for Enjolras to sulk into his room, looking for comfort through the night. He alternates between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sometimes dragging them both to the couch or bed to help fend off panicking tears or trembling hands.    

     “Good but we still have to get up.” Combeferre sits back a little. "We’re late.”   

     “I’m sleeping.” He cracks open an eye to look up at his friend. It’s a constant fight to get him to sleep so why would he not let him do it now? “I want stay sleeping.”   

     “I wish we could. Believe me, I would happily crawl back in bed if we could but we’re really super late.” He pulls back the quilt his friend is buried under.   

     “For?”   

     “A doctor’s appointment.” He smiles apologetically. Enjolras frowns. “It’s only Larose, though. No physical therapy or speech lessons. You just have to stand there and answer a few questions.”   

     Enjolras looks down the length of his bed, silent and thoughtful for a long moment. “I like Valjean.”   

     “I like Valjean too.”   

     “It’s hard but I like him.” He turns back to his friend. There’s a young, displeased look on his face. “I don’t like Larose.”   

     “He’s a good doctor,” Combeferre defends lightly. In the end, that’s all that matters. They don’t have to be his friend. He just has to do the best he possibly can for Enjolras.   

     “He has questions.”   

     Combeferre tilts his head. “How so?”   

     “Many questions. For me. My name. My birthday. The year,” he gives as an example. “Many of them.”   

     “True but you usually answer most of them right.” His voice is strong and reassuring, confident as always in Enjolras’ ability despite the previous appointments that have proved time and time again that Enjolras doesn’t usually answer them right. On his best days, he’s at fifty percent. It doesn’t convince Enjolras, who drops his gaze. There’s a flash of intelligence in his eyes and Combeferre is suddenly reminded just how smart Enjolras is. When his memory allows it, there’s no question that he understands to true depth of how much he’s missing and how much he’s lost. For a moment, Combeferre wonders how much easier this would be if he wasn't as smart as he was, if the damage reached even deeper and took these small flashes of understanding away. Realizing what he’s wishing for his friend, Combeferre physically flinches. He falls on top of Enjolras, finally finding an easy, natural smile when he kisses his best friend’s cheek. It’s a silent apology for all of the painful and unfair thoughts he wasn’t strong enough to push away.    

     He’s fighting back guilty tears when Enjolras wraps an arm around his neck and laughs. “We can sleep,” he decides, unaware of the tears and apologies. “It’s better than questions.”   

     Already late, Combeferre laughs and justifies staying in the embrace for another few minutes until he feels Enjolras sink closer to sleep. As much as he wishes he could, they can’t miss this doctor’s appointment. If Enjolras falls back asleep, they’d have to start this whole process over again and then they might as well reschedule. Combeferre pushes himself up with a sigh, then grabs Enjolras’ arm and pulls him up to follow. Before Enjolras can grumble his disapproval, Combeferre offers, “We’re late already so maybe we can go to the Musain first to grab some breakfast.”   

     “Yeah?”   

     “Yeah but only if you brush your teeth. I can smell your breath from the kitchen.”   

     Enjolras playfully shoves his shoulder, then clambers out of bed. His first few steps are unsteady while he adjusts to the bright light in the apartment and the sudden move upright. Once he grows more stable, Combeferre feels comfortable enough to turn his focus to grabbing warm layers for him to wear. The day before this would have turned into a battle for Enjolras to prove to both Combeferre and himself that he is capable of dressing himself. Where Combeferre knows that and understands the desire to accomplish something such as that, Enjolras not only forgets what month it is but also tends to take the better half of an hour to get dressed. There are too many distractions, his fleeting attention, a drifting memory, and adding the complete lack of motivation in going to doctor’s appointment. Combeferre doesn’t leave it to chance. If he did, they’d have no hope of making it to the hospital in enough time to salvage the appointment.    

     Because Enjolras brushed his teeth, washed his face, and got dressed rather quickly, although mostly by Combeferre’s constant small encouragements, he doesn’t rush him through the Musain. Musichetta is working and quickly rounds the counter to thread her arm through his. Combeferre contently watches as she guides him behind the counter, pointing out this new cookie, offering him a taste of that, or sneaking him one of his favorites. Without the arm brace and with that warm smile of his, Enjolras almost convinces him that everything is normal again. They’re close to forty minutes late when they finally get into the car but Enjolras is talking, smiling, and eating more than he has in the last week. Combeferre can’t complain. He simply calls ahead to warn the receptionist that they’ll be late.    

     After several miles of biting his lip and encouraged by the light air in the car, Combeferre finally reaches over to squeeze his friend’s arm. Enjolras looks up from where he was searching through one of the brown bags Musichetta handed him on their way out. The bagel he was eating sits in his lap, forgotten in exchange for something sweeter. He drops his gaze to pull out something that fills the car with the smooth smell of peanut butter, then looks back to Combeferre.    

     “I’m sorry,” Combeferre tells him. His voice has dropped the jovial tone the morning has seemed filled with. A moment passes where he considers leaving it at that but Enjolras’ face falls to an open confusion unfamiliar in the life before his accident. He doesn’t have a choice but to continue and explain it to Enjolras. “About last night. I didn’t mean what I said. I was tired and worried.”   

     After a curt laugh Enjolras shakes his head and drops his attention back to the bag. “Doesn’t matter.”   

     “No it does matter. I took out my fears on you. That’s not fair. I want you to know that I will be at your side every step of the way.” He doesn’t realize his mistake until he risks a look to Enjolras. It’s not hard to see that the relief that lifted from his chest landed heavily on Enjolras’ shoulders. Any comfort the apology leaves him with disappears once he realizes why.   

     “Doesn’t matter,” Enjolras repeats bitterly. “I don’t remember.”    

     They merge onto the highway and it’s another few miles before Combeferre can glance over to his friend again. He doesn’t need long to recognize the small clench of Enjolras’ jaw. It’s a painful comment, one that could threaten tears. When Enjolras turns to him, it gives Combeferre the chance to see just how hard he’s fighting the fear of what he doesn’t remember and the ache of knowing he’s lost something yet again. “I’m too.” His voice trembles every so slightly. “Sorry. What I say. Last night. I don’t remember but know it wasn’t good. Doesn’t feel good, you know?”   

     Combeferre shakes his head, smiling at the road because he knows Enjolras is watching him carefully. “I know but you don’t have anything to be sorry about.”   

     “Yes.”   

     “No,” Combeferre counters immediately. It’s sharp but not harsh. “You were just being stubborn. I was the one at fault. I let my worry build to anger and I wasn’t listening to why you were being stubborn.”  

     They’re quiet for a moment. When Enjolras speaks, his eyes are on his lap where the forgotten food sits. He can barely be heard over the hum of the road beneath them. “It be easier.”   

     “What would be?”   

     “Not be stubborn,” he says louder. Belief strengthening his words.    

     “You?”   

     “Yeah. Easier for you. And Courf. All everybody. The doctors. My dad.” He huffs out a frustrated breath and turns to the window to keep Combeferre from seeing him cry.   

     Combeferre squeezes his arm for his attention. He waits until Enjolras finally looks back. There is the soft glisten of wiped away tears on his cheeks and while more threaten, his jaw is firmly set in an attempt to keep them back. “Never say that.”   

     It’s stern enough to startle Enjolras. “What?”   

     “Complacency may seem simpler or easier but I truly believe your stubbornness is why you are still here.”   

     “Be where?”   

     “Dead.”   

     “What?”   

     “I think you would be dead.”   

     Enjolras suddenly laughs. It’s part disbelieving, like he assumes Combeferre is being dramatic, and strangely dark, as if at the time that seems an easier option. The unpleasant sound fills the car. A moment passes where Enjolras’ eyes shift in thought. “No,” he says. “Not dead.”   

     “You don’t remember that we were on the verge of making funeral arrangements for you,” Combeferre snaps. The breath escapes Enjolras as if it were a physical blow. Where he softens his tone, Combeferre doesn’t regret the sharp approach. “We were going to have to buy flowers, a gravestone. A coffin, Enjolras.” He pauses to glance to Enjolras. His jaw is trembling and he no longer tries to keep his cheeks free of tears. Combeferre reaches over again to squeeze his friend’s arm. He smiles gently when Enjolras turns to him. “You’re here because you are so annoyingly stubborn and I am forever grateful for that frustrating little trait of yours.”   

     Slowly, as he processes the words, Enjolras drops his gaze but he keeps his hand intertwined in Combeferre’s. They’re almost to the hospital when he finally speaks again. Either it took him that long to find the words, to regain control of his emotions, or he recognized they were getting close and the time to add it was disappearing. Combeferre would guess it’s a combination of the three but the reason doesn’t matter. “Sorry,” Enjolras apologizes softly. “For falling.”   

     “It wasn’t your fault.”   

     “My fault,” corrects Enjolras.   

     “No, it wasn’t. No one could have predicted this, E. None of us could have prepared or prevented this from happening. It happened, just the same way everything else in life happens, both shitty and amazing.”   

     “I stayed, then wouldn’t fall.”       

     “It’s not your fault. You are not responsible for this.” He squeezes his hand but Enjolras doesn’t respond. There’s a split second where he considers pulling the car over to make sure his point is made but the risk doesn’t bring him to action. There’s no doubt that there’ll be other moments when Enjolras will need to be reminded and there is no limit to how hard Combeferre will work to convince him of that. Instead he asks the question that has bounced to his lips more than once since they’ve gotten home. He wants to say it’s because the reality of what they thought being home would be like isn’t what it has been but he knows it’s more curiosity than anything sincerely natured. “Do you wish it was different?”   

     Enjolras laughs like it’s a ridiculous question. As soon as it leaves his mouth, Combeferre realizes just how absurd of a question it was. He looks apologetically to his friend, ready to take back the words but when he looks over he sees Enjolras looking out the window with a smile. It’s an oddly amused smile and not what he expected. “Yes,” Enjolras nods. “Wish it was normal. I was normal.”   

     “Normal is something different for everyone. You are alive and this will get easier,” Combeferre states as he pulls the car into the parking lot. “I’m not glad this happened but I am so glad that you are still here. The only normal I wouldn’t be able to get used to, would be the one where you never woke up.” He parks the car, turns to Enjolras, and smiles. It’s the amazed, grateful look that his best friend is still alive. Enjolras frowns curiously at him, like he’s not sure if he missed something. “You’re not dead,” Combeferre explains lightly, his smiling growing. “And that makes me happy.”   

     As the emotions flash through Enjolras’ narrowed eyes, Combeferre watches him carefully. His smile starts to falter after a long minute passes, then another and Enjolras doesn’t say anything. Finally when Enjolras looks back up to him, his jaw is set and his eyes are clear. He nods seriously as he states, “Glad I’m not dead.”   

     Combeferre laughs loudly in his surprise. He pulls Enjolras over the middle console of the car with a hand around his neck to kisses his best friend’s forehead. “We all are.”

  
        —————————————————————————-  
   

     Where he doesn't like these visits, he doesn't really mind them. They are more of an unpleasant nuisance than a painful way to spend the afternoon. Or morning, he’s not sure what time it is and the overcast weather doesn’t help him guess. Enjolras looks to his friend, noting the coffee cup in his hand but, again, that doesn’t help. Combeferre could be drinking coffee anytime of the day. Assuming it’s even coffee he has. He pushes away the quiet voice telling him that he should know what time of the day it is, that it’s an important piece of information that a grown-up is supposed to contain, and walks into the building.

     He follows Combeferre up the stairs to the right, wondering if he should remember the path by now. This office is different than the hospital he spent so many months in. It’s quieter and warmer, with beige walls and real plants. The nurses seem more like receptionists and there are no orderlies to be found. Everyone smiles warmly at him. No one tries to escort him back to the wing of the hospital he’s supposed to be in. He doesn’t think this is the same hospital. The entire building looks different, feels different, even smells different. There’s no emergency entrance with frantic ambulances or the familiar path that he used to walk with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He doesn’t live here.    

     The appointments themselves, the ones with Larose anyway, aren’t long but they are exhausting. He feels guilty and weak when they leave him dreary, fatigued, and as much as he tries to fight it, just plain grumpy. There isn’t anything physical, not like what he does in physical therapy, and there isn’t a lot of mental effort like the lessons with Valjean. Those challenges he enjoys. With Larose it’s sitting through all of the measuring, poking, prodding, flashing lights, and occasional brain scans. Those are the worst. Without Combeferre, he panics but if Combeferre sits with him he has to wear heavy protective aprons against the MRI machine. It makes Enjolras feel guilty to expose or risk his friend, whatever the reason for the special gear is, because he can’t manage to just sit there quietly. That and the questions. Those are even worse than the scans. All of the dreaded questions are the same and he’ll inevitably get them wrong. It's hard to know Combeferre is watching him so intently. There's the ever constant hope for the right answers and the carefully constrained smile when he hears the same wrong responses. Enjolras is grateful he's there, at his side but he wonders if it would be easier to let him down in one shake of the doctor's head rather than watch each failed response leave in his own broken voice. But Enjolras wouldn't answer any of the questions if Combeferre wasn't with him. He wouldn’t sit through the prodding and poking and brain scans. Everyone knows this.    

     As Combeferre signs them in, he moves to sit next to the window in the waiting area. It's a bit chillier by the thin glass but it gives him a view of the car. That’s important because it reminds him that they go home after this. _Because he lives at home and not at a hospital_. He searches the parking lot below them until he sees the familiar car, then sits down. Combeferre is saying something to the nurse behind the counter. Enjolras looks to his lap, realizing he didn’t bring a book or his glasses. It doesn't look like Combeferre has a book on him either. Enjolras wonders if he left his in the car. Not knowing how long he'll have to wait, he looks back out the window to judge his chances of going back to the car to get it.   

     "Enjolras," Combeferre calls.    

     Maybe he does have his book. Enjolras looks up to see his friend smiling at him. It might not be the first time his name was called. "Yeah?"   

     "Come on.” Combeferre takes a few steps towards him. “They have a room ready.”   

     He frowns, not quite ready to move into the appointment yet. Usually it takes a long time, an average of a chapter or two he’d say, before they’re ushered past the desk. Those moments are nice, quiet. Like reading on the couch, snuggled up with Courfeyrac at the end of the day. He gets lost in the words he understands, joins a world where he is not damaged and set apart. Reading he can do. Reading at his friend’s side is even better because he can pretend it’s just the same as before the accident. But he isn’t the same and Combeferre is waiting for him to move. Not wanting to give Combeferre any more stress or worry, he stands up and follows him through the office halls.    

     The exam room is just the same as every other exam room he’s been in with beige walls, a stiff chair covered in paper, a cabinet hiding annoying medical tools, and a picture of some landscape hanging on the wall. This one is of a mountain. There’s a stool Combeferre drops into next to the window that lets in enough of a chill that forces Enjolras to keep his shirt on even though he knows taking it off will be the first thing the doctor will tell him to do. He walks around the small room, feeling Combeferre’s eyes on him. There’s a mirror above the counter that he barely glances in, not wanting to see the scars he constantly feels, then opens the cabinet door to find nothing interesting enough to distract him until the doctor arrives. After closing it, he frowns and eventually climbs onto the chair to wait. He swings his legs against the plastic beneath it, the sound echoes in the small room. Combeferre is still watching him, subtly and probably more out of boredom than concern or annoyance. Enjolras doesn’t mind. He’s sure that he’d be hyper aware of Combeferre if Combeferre was the one that almost died.   

     The time goes by, enough to catch Enjolras’ attention. He looks away from the window he was staring out of to his friend. Combeferre’s head is leaning back against the wall, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed. Even though he’s not asleep, Enjolras feels bad and bites his tongue. He feels his pockets for his phone, wanting to know the time even if he doesn’t have any reference for how that could affect his day. Not finding his phone, and not surprised because he can’t remember the last time he used his phone, he glances around the wall for a clock. The last distinct memory he has of a phone is with Jehan who was showing him pictures but he can’t remember the reason for it. He does remember Jehan’s cautious smile that grew proudly after whatever Enjolras had said.    

     The paper crinkles under him, filling the room with an incredible amount of noise. He grimaces as he turns to see Combeferre sitting up. Combeferre smiles at him and Enjolras makes a note of how he looks more tired than sleepy. “You good?”   

     Enjolras nods. “We early, Ferre?”   

     “Are we early?”    

     It sounds more like a question than a correction. Assuming Combeferre is looking for a clarification as to what he was asking and not hoping for an answer, Enjolras repeats it. “Are we early?”   

     “No. We’re really late.” He glances at his watch and grimaces to emphasis his point. Most of the time, Enjolras is grateful when they do that. Most of the time, it’s light and helpful. Other times he feels mocked or coddled until he reminds himself that there will be a moment where that little action, that dramatic gesture gives him a missing piece. “We actually missed our time so we’ll have to wait a little.”   

     “Oh. Okay. Be done soon, though. Right?” He just wants to go home.    

     “Hopefully.” Combeferre sits up on the stool. “Why? Are you feeling okay?”   

     The tone sounds less worried and more curious and although there is always a little hint of concern in Combeferre’s questions this feels more like when he would ask if Enjolras felt aright before the accident. That was when their biggest worry was that maybe they were getting the flu. Enjolras wonders if it means things are getting back to normal or if it’s just a difference of where they are. At home, Combeferre feels responsible. Enjolras laughs, shaking his head because Combeferre is responsible. He’s responsible for the medicine Enjolras takes, when he eats, how much he sleeps, keeping track and getting them to the doctor’s appointments, speech lessons, and physical therapy. There’s no way Enjolras would know when he’s supposed to get up or what he’s supposed to take and when. But here, there are doctors and nurses to step up, step in, and take control. Here, Combeferre doesn’t have to keep Enjolras’ weight on his shoulders.    

     “Are you alright, E?” Combeferre asks again, a little louder this time.    

     He looks up from his lap. There’s the distinct sting of guilty tears but he smiles, pushing them away to reassure his friend. “Yes. Just like being home.”   

     Combeferre’s smile is one full of agreement and understanding. “We’ll be home soon. Maybe you and I can watch a documentary or something.”   

     “Yeah?” Enjolras narrows his eyes. They haven’t turned on the television since he got home. Not that he can remember, anyway. The doctor warned him against the computer and TV, saying it could bother his head. Enjolras assumes it’s the same way bright light or loud noises can spur sharp pains against his temple. A documentary sounds ideal but unrealistic given the length that Combeferre has gone through to keep to the doctor’s advice.    

     “Yeah. You have the one about the French Revolution memorized so if the screen gives you a headache you can just close your eyes and listen to it.”   

     Enjolras studies his face, waiting for a condition to rise. A minute passes and Combeferre only laughs at his disbelief. He smiles at the sound and the sincerity of the offer. “Okay. That’s nice.”   

     “I think so, too.” Combeferre runs a hand through his hair, still smiling at Enjolras. It shifts from amused to something Enjolras would label as astonished. The look is familiar and one that only reminds him of how close he came to dying, how shocked they are that he’s even here. It leaves him with a complicated twist of emotions in his chest, something that he is happier avoiding than confronting. He gives Combeferre a short smile, trying to agree, before turning back to the window. A quiet minute passes before Combeferre calls his name. His face had fallen to something more pensive but not quite solemn. It’s enough to get Enjolras’ attention without startling him. “Can I ask you something?”   

     “Yeah.”   

     Enjolras sits up when he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees in a serious action. “Next week, I’m planning on taking Éponine out to dinner.”    

     It sounds like it takes him a lot of effort to admit. Enjolras waits for the question. When Combeferre only studies him intently, Enjolras knits his brow. “Okay.”   

     “Is that okay?”   

     “What okay?”   

     “For me to take her to dinner. Do you mind?”     

     He tilts his head to the side, eyes still narrow in his confusion. Clearly he’s missing something. “Not my girlfriend.”   

     Combeferre laughs. “No, I know that. I’m asking if you’re okay with me leaving.”   

     The confusion deepens to a heavy frown. “Leaving where?”   

     “Home.”   

     A cold flush spreads across Enjolras’ chest. “To?”   

     “To take her to dinner.” It looks like he wants to say more, to justify something or explain in depth but he keeps it short.   

     “To eat,” Enjolras tries to clarify. Despite his best efforts to keep his voice neutral, it comes out shaky with nervous.    

     “Yes.”   

     He thinks for a moment, reminding himself that Combeferre isn’t leaving him, not in that way and not for good. Dinner means Combeferre will be back. Dinner, as in something normal people do and should do without worrying about damaged friends left at home. “You getting dinner. Dinner with Éponine.”   

     “Yeah.” His eyes never leave Enjolras’ face, so Enjolras looks away. “Is that okay?”   

     Enjolras turns back to him. A moment passes where he can’t seem to decide if he’s annoyed with Combeferre’s assumption that he’d be upset or angry with himself for being upset. Combeferre isn’t leaving him and Enjolras isn’t mad, he reminds himself. Confused but not mad. “Yes. You and Éponine need dinner. You,” he pauses, extending the word as he thinks for the right way to say the next part. “You need dinner. You should need- should get. You should get dinner because you- word?”   

     “I’m not sure what your looking for.”   

     “You.” He points to Combeferre, as if that will help explain his point.  _You deserve it_ , he needs to say. _And so much more._ Tears threaten again with the memories of Combeferre leaving him in the hospital, of all the anger and heavy sadness that being alone left him with. Now he’s better, not normal but better, and Combeferre shouldn’t have to be with him. Being alone doesn’t feel any better, even just the thought of it tightens that bundle of emotions in his chest, but Combeferre doesn’t have to know that. Combeferre shouldn’t have to worry about that. “You go with Éponine.”    

     “I’d be back the next morning and Courfeyrac will be with you,” Combeferre explains to him. The worry is clearly printed on his face and Enjolras hates that he’s responsible for it. The fear that he’ll never be better than this, that he’ll never free his friends of this burden isn’t unfamiliar.   

     “I- I a grown-up.” His tone is sharper than he intended and comes across like he’s reminding Combeferre of the fact instead of trying to convince himself of it. Enjolras looks away, jaw trembling a little against the few tears that escape. “No. No not you, not that, Ferre. I- I want to be. I should be. You should go and I should be.”

     “Be what?”   

     At the gentle, loved voice Enjolras turns back. There’s no pity on Combeferre’s face. Only the sincere desire to understand what he’s trying to say. Enjolras sniffs, then shrugs. “Be normal.” Louder he says, “I can read. That’s only part that’s normal. Every- every, it’s all- everything all is hard. Should not be hard. It sucks.”    

     Tears start falling steadier now and he makes an angry noise against the sudden sobs that build in the back of his throat. He covers his face in his hand, wishing, not for the first time, that he could go back in time. Combeferre’s arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into a strong and warm embrace. This, Enjolras thinks. He starts to cry harder. Combeferre shouldn’t have to do this. Combeferre shouldn’t have to be this reliable, responsible caregiver to his disabled friend. He should be going on dates and finishing grad school. He should be having fun and living his life without worrying about making it to doctors appointments or picking up medicines from the pharmacy or reassuring his disabled friend that it’s not his fault when it clearly is.    

     “Sorry,” he says once he finally seems to run out of tears. The apology is for everything, every moment of Combeferre’s wasted life on him and the fucked up result of his stupid decision. The tears end but the emotions don’t fade. They don't even seem dented by the amount of tears that now stain Combeferre’s shirt. Enjolras doesn’t look up, can’t look up, as he apologizes again. “Sorry, Ferre.”   

     “You don’t have to be. You shouldn’t be,” Combeferre promises him.    

     Enjolras doesn’t believe it. But he nods, pretending he does because Combeferre shouldn’t have to add Enjolras’ emotional state on top of everything else he has to worry about. Maybe he can live with his dad, Enjolras thinks. Or he can pay for a full-time assistant to pick up the stress he puts on Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Certainly he can afford it now. With the sudden idea, he looks up to his friend. He did this to himself but that doesn’t mean he can’t release them from the fucked up world he’s gotten himself in to. “A new home.”   

     “What?”   

     “A new home. For me,” he tries. The painful loneliness the idea gives him is momentarily forgotten in exchange for how much better it would be for Combeferre. He wouldn’t have to miss dates with Éponine because he’s watching Enjolras or take time off school. He can go back to the life he had before the accident in the way Enjolras can’t. And maybe they can meet for coffee every now and then, Enjolras quietly tells himself.    

     Combeferre takes a step back to look at him. “What do you mean?”   

     “The money from my dad,” Enjolras explains. “That for a new home. A home for me. And someone to help. To drive to doctors and to do what you do. But you do other things now. Other person with me.”   

     “What other person?”   

     “Pay them. Word? Pay money for something. Word, Ferre? You go back to life. Like before I fell. No more worries or doctors but dinner with Ponine and drinks with friends. I don’t anymore but you can. You should.” Enjolras speaks louder the more he convinces himself that this is the best idea he’s had since the accident. The strength in his decision makes him miss the horror Combeferre’s face twists itself in as he realizes what Enjolras is suggesting. “You go back to life. I go new home. With person to help way that you help now. Pay them. I have money. You need to your life.” He swallows down the sudden rise of tears. “You need better than me.”   

     “Are you serious?”   

     He looks up from where he had dropped his gaze to his hands. The understanding that if Combeferre agrees, then he won’t live with them anymore threatens to steal his words. But with his belief that this is what’s best for his friends, he nods. “Yes. You and Courf. You live back to normal. You don’t worry about me.” His gaze drops for a moment before looking sternly at Combeferre. “It’s best.”   

     Combeferre looks as confused as Enjolras usually feels. “What makes you think I’d want you to leave? That we’d want you to leave?”   

     “Should. You should.” _You deserve it_ , Enjolras wants to tell him but he can’t find that one key word. “You need better.”   

     “If I was the one hurt, would you leave me?” Combeferre asks. There’s the slightest hint of amusement to his voice as he tries to laugh off the suggestion. Enjolras misses the attempt, hearing only the first part.    

     “No. You okay.” Enjolras shakes his head, frowning as he studies his friend for any injury he may have missed. If he got this fucked up at the protest, maybe they did too. But he would have saw it. A limp or a bandage, misplaced questions or plastered limbs. Unless it’s passed and they’ve healed already. When was the protest? He remembers spending a long time in the hospital but that could be relative. They could still be hurt. His memory is less than reliable as of late. Maybe Combeferre is hurt too. Maybe he missed something. In a need for it to be true, he firmly states, "You okay, Ferre."   

     "If I was though, E. If I was hurt or Courfeyrac was, would you let us move? Would you leave us to someone else?"   

     Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember every second of the last time he saw Courfeyrac. Or Bahorel or Grantaire or Jehan. All of the other amazing friends who are always by his side. He sees flashes of the hospital, pieces from home, crystal clear memories that happened before the accident. There are bar fights with broken noses, drunken stumbles, cooking accidents, riots and protests. Football games in the park that got a little rowdy, dramatic gestures with fire gone wrong, some sort of juggling incident with Jehan and Feuilly that landed them both in the ER. Everyone has gotten their fair share of bumps and bruises, everyone has been to the hospital. But no one is permanently, detrimentally damaged. Except for him. Right? "Right?" He asks Combeferre when he opens his eyes. It's desperate and frightened. He grabs his friend's shirt where his own tears are still drying. "Everyone okay. You okay, Ferre. I know you okay. Everyone is okay. Right?"   

     A minute passes where Combeferre thinks, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully on Enjolras' face. Tears spring up again as the seconds tick by and he's not reassured. Maybe they aren't okay. For all he knows someone could be gone. What if someone is gone? "Ferre!" He shouts suddenly. "Everyone okay? Everyone. All them. Les Amis alive?"   

     It seems to startle Combeferre and maybe Enjolras wasn't clear enough. Before he can ask again, before he can try different words, Combeferre nods. "Yes. Yes, absolutely. Everyone is okay. They are all alive and healthy."   

     Enjolras releases a shuddering breath. "Good. Good, Ferre. They are alive."   

     Combeferre brushes Enjolras' hair back and bends to get his attention. "I'll be right back. Okay? One minute, E."   

     He holds up his finger as he backs up. Enjolras stands to watch him run down the hall. As Combeferre disappears, Enjolras leans out of the doorway. He wants to follow his friend and cling to him at the sudden panic that Combeferre's going to go through with this new plan but stays in fear of getting lost among the twisted halls of the unfamiliar building. A nurse passes. Her smile is warm but he steps back cautiously. Maybe they’ll commit him. Maybe they won’t get coffee. Maybe he’ll end up in a hospital worse than the one he lived in for so long. Maybe it would be easier if he was just gone. Mourning a lost life has to be easier than trying to pick up the pieces of a broken one.   

     “I’m here, Enjolras,” Combeferre calls as he returns. Not realizing he had covered his face with his hands, Enjolras looks up. His friend has a marker in his hand and smiles briefly. It’s a silent promise that he’ll explain everything if Enjolras is just patient enough. He watches as Combeferre steps in front of the mirror, uncaps the marker, and carefully adds two lines identical to the ones on Enjolras’ face. The sight horrifies Enjolras. He takes a step away from his friend, then closes the distance to wipe the black marks away. Combeferre grabs his wrists before he can, demanding his attention. “If it was me, if I was hurt, would you pay for me to live somewhere else?”   

     “No.” Enjolras pulls against the strong grip, tears running down his face as he angrily tries to rid his friend of the terrifying scars. “No! No, Ferre! Get them off!”   

     “Then why do you think I would leave you?” His voice is louder than Enjolras’ but calmer. Enjolras stills except for the constant fall of tears and his slightly trembling hands. After one last look to the fake scars, he stares at his friend. A breath escapes.  _Oh_. Combeferre smiles gently. His grip loosens but he doesn’t let go. “I will not leave you. Not because I feel guilty or because I feel responsible but because there is no other place I’d want to be than at your side. Brain damage or not. Scarred or not. Talking or not. I love you and I will be there for you for as long as you let me. If you want me to leave, tell me but if you want to leave I promise you that I’m not letting you go that easily. I didn’t lose you in June and I will not lose you now.”    

     Enjolras feels his face start to crumple. In one last attempt he clenches his jaw but it doesn’t work and as he lets Combeferre pull him into a hug. The sobs that escape his chest are loud and painful.    

     He doesn’t remember what questions he got wrong or sitting for the x-ray of his arm. He doesn’t remember the drive home, stopping by the pharmacy, or who it was that called Combeferre as they walked up the stairs to their apartment. What Enjolras remembers is Combeferre’s constant hand in his own. He remembers falling asleep against his friend’s chest and believing, for the first time, that maybe things will be okay. And if he’s forever stuck in this complicated twist of emotions, the overlapping and disappearing timelines, facing the terrifying world that is missing so many pieces but used to seem so easily conquered that at least he’ll have Combeferre’s hand in his own to follow.


	42. February 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late delay. My already crappy update frequency will get worse now that I'm back in school. But I will try to continue updating frequently! If it's not fast enough, please feel free to yell at me! It does make me update faster. 
> 
> So here it is :)

         Combeferre glances around his book to look at the clock. He does a double take, realizing that it’s nearly six o’clock. Dropping his book, he rushes into Courfeyrac’s bedroom. They’re supposed to be there at six-thirty and the house is at least twenty minutes past the hospital. There’s no way they’re going to be on time. The bedroom lights are off so he uses his phone to pick through the room because no matter how late they are, he’d never wake his friends by turning on the bright light. The lamp on the nightstand is not only smaller but softer. Combeferre knows how frightening it can be to be startled awake now. He always thinks it would be the ideal way to wake up, to break through the fears and terror that waits for each of them when they close their eyes. It only makes it worse, leaving you trembling and doubting everyone who told you it’s okay.    

     Once it’s on, the room is gently illuminated but the two sleeping boys don’t stir. It doesn’t surprise him. He heard Courfeyrac last night and he was up with Enjolras the entire night before. The nights bleed together after that in a haze of nightmares and tears. Between Combeferre’s worrying, Enjolras’ panic, Courfeyrac’s anxiety, and any of their friends who see things that scare them enough to bring them running over to check up on Enjolras, the nights are anything but easy and peaceful.    

     Twice this week, Combeferre woke up to find Jehan snuggled up with Enjolras. Neither he nor Courfeyrac had any idea Jehan had come over and Enjolras couldn't say what time he arrived. Even though it’s not hard to understand why he had to come over in the middle of the night, Enjolras didn’t seem bothered by it. If anything, he seemed pleasantly surprised. Combeferre wonders if he remembers the poet knocking softly on his bedroom door in the dead of the night to make sure he’s still alive or if Enjolras just assumes he doesn’t remember falling asleep with Jehan next to him. He wonders if Enjolras finds it odd when Bahorel frantically runs in and Jehan refuses to let him go for hours, if he’s confused when Bossuet suddenly pulls him into a hug and Joly pulls their faces close together. He wonders if Enjolras finds it strange that Éponine snuggles with him or if he even notices that Cosette and Musichetta alternate making dinner for them just so they have an excuse to come over. Combeferre doubts it. Enjolras is just now starting to retain details about the accident. It’ll be at least a few weeks before he starts recognizing the patterns in their little routine and there’s no telling what he just assumes is normal now.    

     Friends come over in the middle of the night, they hold him close and grow quiet with the occasional bouts of sorrow. Combeferre isn’t in school anymore and Courfeyrac barely works. Everyone’s free time is spent at their apartment. They drive to physical therapy lessons, speech lessons, or doctors appointments then spend the rest of the time sleeping or fighting sleep.    

     It’s not uncommon to have everyone over for hours at a time with no other reason than to see Enjolras, to snuggle and hug Enjolras. Combeferre has grown accustomed to making extra coffee in the mornings with the assumption that someone came over in the middle of the night or is planning on coming over as soon as the sun is up. At least half of their friends stop by before noon on a regular basis. The only thing that’s the same as before the accident is that Enjolras is alive. Combeferre has a hard time trying to remember what life was like before June sixth.   

     For a moment, Combeferre considers letting them sleep. Valjean had made him promise only to come if Enjolras was up for it and being up for two nights in a row wouldn’t equivalent being up for a dinner party forty minutes outside the city. But Combeferre not only forgot the meaning of his alarm but didn’t wake them up like he had planned. He skipped a shower this morning so he could be with Enjolras while Courfeyrac left to buy groceries, he hasn’t left the house since Enjolras’ last physical therapy lesson on Wednesday, and can’t remember what a normal sleep schedule feels like. So maybe he’s not ready for a dinner party either.    

     But Enjolras sleeps easier now. He doesn’t stay asleep and he doesn’t want to fall asleep but he does. He’s eating more, talking more, laughing more. The new medication Combeferre begged for is starting to kick in. Everything is half the strength as it was before. Now there’s less nausea and easier sleep, a softer high and a better ability to understand why he has to take them. Pain in his head and arm, the thinness of his waist, and the strength of antibiotics to ease him into the world. For the first time, he can tell them what happened, how he got the scars. As painful as the fight was, Enjolras’ awareness alone is worth it. Maybe things can now start falling closer to life before the accident.   

     He wants Valjean to see this, for all of their friends to see this. He wants Enjolras to see them, to prove to them and himself that this will get better, things will be better. This is a good thing, he reassures himself as he shakes Courfeyrac’s shoulder. The two are adorably intertwined, just as they always end up being when sharing a bed together. Courfeyrac wakes up slowly, barely cracking his eyes open after two minutes of shaking his shoulder. It takes another long minute before Combeferre gets his attention. “We’re really late. I’m going to hop in the shower. Can you get E ready to go in fifteen minutes?”   

     “For what?” Courfeyrac asks, already closing his eyes again.    

     Combeferre shakes him a second time. “Come on, wake up. We’re really late for Valjean’s dinner. I don’t want to miss it.”   

     “How late?”   

     “Late to the point were we need to get up now,” Combeferre says softly. He still doesn’t want to wake Enjolras up. It seems cruel when all he ever tried to do these past few weeks was get him to sleep. He leaves it to Courfeyrac as often as he can. “I’m going to take a shower. Can you get him up and ready?”   

     “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”   

     “The others will be here any minute, expecting to leave.”   

     “Okay.”   

     “Seriously, Courf. Fifteen minutes and we’re leaving. I’ll text Cosette and tell her we’re running late.”   

     Courfeyrac closes his eyes as he rolls back into Enjolras’ shoulder. He pulls the blanket higher over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Fifteen.”   

     It’s not convincing but Combeferre leaves with one last reminder before texting Cosette with a heads up that the’ll be late, then jumping into the shower. He’s not in there long before the door to the bathroom opens, followed quickly by the shower curtain. Without his glasses, he can only make out the general shape of the person and their dark colored hair. “I’ll be out in a minute, Courf,” he promises as he tries to wash the last of the shampoo from his hair.    

     “Courfeyrac surprises you like this?” It’s Éponine. Combeferre can hear the smile in her voice. She tsks her disapproval. “I’m going to have to talk to him about that.”   

     “Hey Éponine,” he grins in what he assumes is her general direction. “I’m glad you decided to come.”   

     “Well I heard Cosette is cooking. How can I turn that down? Besides I haven’t seen you all week.”   

     His face falls, his stomach twists guiltily. Forgetting about the shower and the quickly ticking clock, he turns to face her. He forgets he’s naked and standing under a stream of water. “I’m really sorry about that. I know I haven’t been a good boyfriend but I’m going to change. I promise.”   

     “It’s okay. Enjolras needs you more than I do.” She cuts him off before he can say anything in response. He opens his mouth to argue but they both know he doesn’t have a valid argument. “And I know that as soon as he’s at a point where he doesn’t need you to that extent anymore, you’ll be the most amazing boyfriend ever.”   

     “But I’m going to be better now. I can be. We’re having dinner Thursday and Courf said that they’ll probably be at the office for at least an hour. We can go to brunch or something.”   

     “I don’t want to go to brunch.”   

     He frowns. He wants to take a step forward, to grab her hand but his foot connects with the edge of the tub in a warning. The sudden reminder that he’s naked, half standing under a stream of warm water, and nearly blind doesn’t distract him away from making this all up to her. Éponine has been there every time he’s called, has come over every time he begged her to because he needed to hear that everything is going to be okay or reassured that this wasn’t not his fault. She leaves without having to be asked when Enjolras can’t handle company anymore, brings Combeferre books and coffee when she knows he hasn't left the apartment in days, texts him constantly wondering how everything is and waits patiently for a sincere response because she doesn’t care if he vents to her for an hour in the middle of the night, then falls asleep before hearing about her day. She’s kind, patient, loving. She’s wonderful. How can he ever thank her for that? A dinner isn’t enough. Just a dinner will never be enough. “What do you want to do?” he asks eagerly. “I’ll do anything.”   

     “I want you.” Her voice is soft, almost cautious in her confession. He wishes he could see her face because he’s sure it’s beautiful. “I want to wake up next to you. I want to have a slow morning where we drink coffee in bed and do the crossword puzzle. That’s all, Ferre. And only if you’re okay with this. I’m serious. If Enjolras needs you, I can wait.”   

     “The more I think about it, the more I look forward to it. I can’t wait, Ép.” Combeferre wants to make sure she believes him. As long as he doesn’t think too long about how he’s leaving Enjolras, he’ll be fine. Courfeyrac will be right there with him. It shouldn’t be this hard. It won’t be that hard, he tells himself. “I promise, Éponine.”   

     “Okay,” she laughs. “I believe you. And you know what, I think my shower is bigger than yours.”   

     “Oh?” He grins in her direction. Maybe he can reach his glasses. He steps out of the water and waves his hand at the space that’s just the right size for her. “I wouldn’t mind trying out that hypothesis. I know we’re late but I doubt Courfeyrac and E are even up yet.”   

     Éponine giggles. “Thursday, Ferre, because that’s another thing I’d like to do. A lot.”    

     He blushes and takes a step back into the water. His smile feels stupid. “Me too.”   

     She catches his hand and pulls him closer for a long kiss. “Thursday,” she repeats softly when they part. When her hand disappears, he sighs dramatically. “Because right now, we’re very, very late.”   

     “Yes. Yes, I know.” He turns the temperature of the water a little colder. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”   

     “Good. I’ll check on the others.” For a moment, he thinks she left until her hand finds his again. He focuses on each breath she takes before speaking. Her voice is softer, honest. It’s the tone she uses when he's feeling guilty for Enjolras’ injuries, when he’s blaming himself and spiraling in a way that he isn't allowed to do. It’s the tone she uses to demand he listens. “I promise you, Combeferre. I believe you. I know that you’ll be there so believe me when I tell you to take your time helping Enjolras first. I’ll be there when both you and Enjolras are ready.”   

     He’s grateful he’s in the shower so she can’t tell his eyes are watering. Although knowing her, she can probably tell. “I love you, Éponine.”   

     “I love you too, Ferre.” She leans into the shower to kiss him. It surprises him but he’s quick to return the affection. He goes back to washing his hair and she moves to check on the other two roommates, both with stupidly giddy smiles on their faces.   

     Grantaire is waiting patiently in the kitchen, still uncertain as to his place with Enjolras. She knows he wants to jump in, to stay at Enjolras’ side and help with every chance he gets but Enjolras doesn’t have the ability to agree to it and Combeferre doesn’t try very hard to hide his disapproval. It leaves him on the more cautious side despite Éponine’s encouragements trying to push him to step up. She makes a note to help him tonight because Grantaire makes things easier for Enjolras and that makes things easier for everyone. Maybe she could get her boyfriend back sooner if Grantaire felt confident enough to offer Enjolras his support.   

     Not hearing Courfeyrac or Enjolras, Éponine makes her way to Jehan who’s leaning in the doorway of his boyfriend’s bedroom. He’s looking into the room with an odd expression on his face but when he glances up to Éponine, he does a double take and smirks. She tries to get her bubbling grin under control until she decides she doesn’t really want it to fade. Éponine doesn’t mind looking like an idiot when it makes her this happy, when he makes her this happy. Jehan’s not one to judge anyway. For a long minute, she stands there, smiling and thinking about Thursday but it’s as much time as she gives herself. They’re already twenty minutes late and if they have any hopes of making it there in a reasonable time, they need to start moving. Enjolras needs to start moving.    

     “Why haven’t you woken them up?” Éponine asks quietly. Despite needing to wake them up, it doesn’t quite feel right. She can’t bring herself to raise her voice. In the softly lit room, only Courfeyrac can be seen where he’s lying on his side. His arms are thrown over Enjolras’ shoulders, keeping him close to his chest. She can’t wait to fall asleep with Combeferre like that, all warm and snuggled.   

     Jehan doesn’t look away from his boyfriend. “I don’t want to.”   

     The response surprises her. “Why not?”   

     “Because I know just how hard it was for Courfeyrac to sleep last night. If it was my choice, I wouldn’t be waking them up at all.”   

     “Oh.” Éponine nods her understanding. She bites her bottom lip. The thought that maybe he’s right crosses her mind but she knows how much Combeferre has been looking forward to this. It’s Enjolras’ chance to show them how much he’s progressed. She’s not sure how well tonight is going to be compared to Combeferre’s expectations, especially because Enjolras is still asleep, but she’s more than happy to give them the opportunity to try. Maybe she’s not seeing something Combeferre is. Right now, though, she can indulge in a little bit of procrastination. “Nightmares?”   

     “What else?” It’s not as bitter as it is frustrated. He speaks of it as a battle against a foreign enemy that they can’t get the edge on. Enjolras is alive but Enjolras is not okay, not really. Every time they see him struggling at home it becomes more and more obvious. To see him panicking in a place he used to challenge corporations, to hear him wrestling through the simplest conversations in a place where he used to practice riot-inducing speeches only makes each one of their nightmares all the more painful. They hold him longer, hug him tighter. They have to because even though Enjolras isn’t okay, they need to remember that he’s here.    

     Éponine turns to face him. She studies his face and the dark flashes behind his eyes as he stares into the dim room. “Do you get them?”   

     “Don’t we all?” He lets out a long, frustrated sigh.    

     That’s what he’s seeing, Éponine realizes. His nightmares are haunting his every minute. She knows how painful that is. They’re quiet for a long minute, watching the two peacefully sleep. Éponine breaks the silence first, weary of the heaviness in her question but her curiosity gets the best of her. “What are yours like?”   

     Jehan doesn’t answer right away. He licks his bottom lip, then turns to look at her. For a moment, it doesn’t look like he’s going to answer and Éponine gets ready to apologize for asking in the first place. Right as she opens her mouth, he smiles. It’s short and bitter, so painfully sad. “I'm reading to him and all he does is squeeze my hand. No matter what I do, no matter what I read. He never wakes up."

     She thanks him quietly for sharing. Knowing that she owes him, she takes in a deep breath and prepares herself. Her nightmares are less frequent but every few days she’s knocking on Grantaire’s door or calling Feuilly over. She’d prefer Combeferre but he needs her to be strong. How can he feel comfortable venting to her if she’s running to be held by him? She glances over her shoulder to see Grantaire is pretending not to hear them by playing with the cat. When Jehan glances over in her silence, she jerks her head in Grantaire’s direction. “I can’t stop him from trying to follow,” she confesses softly. “I’m trying to talk him down, pull away the bottle, jerking him back from the ledge. Sometimes it’s Combeferre.”   

     “Courfeyrac has nightmares about killing the cop but those are his better ones.” Jehan subtly wipes a tear from the corner of his eye with his thumb. Maybe tomorrow they can all come over for breakfast or have a movie marathon. A reminder that Enjolras is still here, still alive, and still very much a part of their lives might be necessary.    

     “Combeferre has that one too. That and one where he’s on the statue but he’s always a second too late.”   

     Jehan tilts his head as he examines his boyfriend and the other man he’s snuggled up with. Thought and curiosity crosses his green eyes, shifting away from the fear, if only for a moment. “I wander what Enjolras’ nightmares are.”

     “I don’t,” Éponine responds immediately. “No way. I hope I never find out.” Jehan looks to her with widen eyes, his eyebrows raised in question. After a short, dark laugh, Éponine turns back to the room with the hope to catch sight of Enjolras. “Whatever they are, I’m sure they’re much worse than anything we see.”   

     The fear returns to Jehan’s eyes, darker now, and it looks like it hurts more this time. Éponine glances over her shoulder again and catches Grantaire’s eye. He gives her a short smile. Deciding they all need a distraction, she figures the best kind of distraction would be to see Enjolras smile. After a deep breath, she bites the bullet. Jehan won’t do it, Grantaire is too afraid to do it, and Combeferre doesn’t want to so it’s up to her anyway.    

     She knows that what she’s seen Combeferre do with Enjolras won’t work coming from anyone else. Over the last few weeks, she’s stuck to what she’d do with Gavroche and adapted it to Enjolras’ responses. His reactions are usually warm and encouraging, sometimes even preferring her to Combeferre. She thinks he snuggles with her when he wants a gentler touch, something akin to a mother’s. Combeferre’s hold is secure and Courfeyrac’s is reassuring but hers is nurturing. She runs her fingers through his hair, scratches his back, keeps him close. It’s the kind of touch she’s always wanted from her own mother, the kind that Grantaire melts for on tougher nights and Gavroche cries for when sick. Enjolras isn’t any different. He lets her hold him, leans into her hands, smiles gratefully and is never too embarrassed to pull away. Maybe it’s less of a question of shame and more of a fact that he’s not strong enough to lose it yet. She doesn’t blame him. It’s the reason why she begs Feuilly to come over or why Grantaire sulks over to her bed in the middle of the night, seeking that comfort.   

     Seeing Combeferre’s relieved smile when she’s able to help Enjolras is a beautiful sight. It’s a wonderful gift to be able to give him. An hour break where he can distract himself away from physical therapy, speech lessons, how Enjolras is feeling or where he is on the timeline. There’s nothing better than being able to comfort Enjolras after a rough night, get him to fall asleep after a panic attack, convinces him to eat something and seeing Combeferre breathe a little easier. Getting Enjolras up and moving, and preferably in a good mood, would be the ideal way to start the evening. The thought that the truly ideal situation would be Enjolras waking up and suddenly being normal crosses her mind, but she ignores it. That’s a skill they’ve all struggled to conquer.    

     She runs her fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair, then Enjolras’ as she softly calls for them. It’s always an odd feeling when she realizes how much she actually enjoys being this tender, motherly figure in their lives. Before she can focus on it and what exactly that means, Courfeyrac rolls to his back. He blinks up at her as Enjolras groans and shifts so his face is hidden against Courfeyrac’s side. “Hi darlings, we have to get up.”   

     Courfeyrac rubs his eyes as he slowly tries to wake himself up. “Why?”   

     Éponine moves her attention to Enjolras, gently running her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. She picked that up from Grantaire. “We’re late for Valjean’s dinner.”   

     “Oh shit.” The sudden urgency in his voice doesn’t match his quiet movements. He slowly pushes himself up, still rubbing his eyes and fighting the strong desire to just fall back into bed. “Ferre woke me up a while ago. That means we’re really late.”   

     “I think he just got out of the shower so we have a few minutes.”   

     “Good.” He pulls in a deep breath, holds it for a long few seconds, then lets it out. After rubbing his eyes again, he looks down to Enjolras, who pulled the blanket over his head. “Come on, E.” Courfeyrac shakes his shoulder. “We have to get up.” When Enjolras doesn’t respond, Courfeyrac pulls the blanket back. The blond mumbles angrily at him without lifting his head off the mattress. “Yeah, I know but we still have to get up.”   

     He peeks around his arms where he’s trying to block his eyes from the light. “Why?”   

     “We’re late for Valjean’s dinner,” Courfeyrac explains. He pushes himself off the bed and waits expectantly for Enjolras to follow but at the doctors’ name, Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. He thinks for a moment before shaking his head. Instead of following his friend, he pushes himself further onto the bed and buries himself back under the blanket. Suddenly realizing his mistake, Courfeyrac quickly backtracks. He leans across the bed to make sure he has Enjolras’ complete attention. “We’re going to eat. Not a lesson.”   

     Enjolras doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move. When Courfeyrac pulls the blanket off a second time, Enjolras peeks around his arm to give him an angry look but doesn’t make any effort to get it back. “Why?” he asks again, softer this time.    

     “We’re going to eat,” Courfeyrac tells him. “Dinner, that’s all.”   

     Thought crosses Enjolras’ face as he works through the words. He makes a decision and shakes his head, again. “No.”   

     “Yeah.”   

     “No. I’m not hungry.” Enjolras tugs at the blanket still in his friend’s hand. “Please? We can sleep.”   

     Courfeyrac doesn’t let go of the blanket but he doesn’t pull it away either. They stare at each other, Enjolras waiting for the okay to go back to sleep and Courfeyrac working through a few different tactics. Once Courfeyrac decides on a distraction, he sits on the bed and takes a shot. The sudden change catches Enjolras’ attention. “I thought you wanted to give Valjean the check.”   

     Enjolras shifts, pushing himself to his forearms, eyeing Courfeyrac suspiciously. “Check?”   

     “For the lessons. Ferre helped you write it out yesterday.” Courfeyrac stands up to walk to Enjolras’ desk before realizing their in his room. He turns back to Enjolras. “Come on. I’ll show you.”   

     It takes Enjolras a minute to decide to follow him, then another one to push himself off the bed. His actions are slow and sluggish as his thoughts struggle to keep up with each careful movement. Éponine can hear Combeferre rushing around. She disappears to assure him there’s no reason to hurry. It’s not hard to see it’ll be at least ten minutes before they’re ready to go. On the way to his own room, Enjolras stops when he sees Grantaire. A surprise smile crosses his face as he waves before Courfeyrac gently pushes him forward. He waits for Grantaire to wave back, both with big, dumb, adorable smiles before encouraging Enjolras to his room. “He’s coming too, E,” Courfeyrac promises.    

     “Where?” Enjolras glances over his shoulder, trying to understand what Grantaire is doing before seeing his bed. He sits down as Courfeyrac digs through his neatly organized desk. Maybe Grantaire will lie with him for a little. They could look through his sketchbooks, read, or just fall asleep. Enjolras wouldn’t mind that but he should be paying attention to Courfeyrac because he’s clearly missing something. Besides, he shouldn’t be thinking about sleeping against Grantaire’s chest because that’s boring for Grantaire. Who would want to just lie there with him? Courfeyrac and Combeferre do. Jehan does. They will, he reminds himself, if he asks pathetically enough. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to get through a day with napping again. He wishes he could remember what normal felt like. Grantaire wouldn’t think he was boring if he was normal.   

     “To dinner.”   

     “Where?” he asks again. It’s more confusion than curiosity. He’s too focused on trying to keep his eyes open to remember to listen.    

     Courfeyrac glances over his shoulder. He takes a minute to find what he’s looking for, then walks to the bed. He offers Enjolras a hand, pulling him off the bed. Enjolras gives him a disgruntled look but doesn’t say anything against it. The fact that he’s not fighting particularly hard means he’s too tired and too confused to concentrate on putting up a real effort. “Where what?”   

     Enjolras tries to remember what he said earlier. The conversation is a blur of movement and yawns. He remembers Grantaire was there. At least Enjolras thinks he was. He looks down to the paper in Courfeyrac’s hand but it doesn’t give him any clues. “What?”   

     His friend smiles. “We’re going to Valjean’s house to eat dinner. Grantaire is coming with us.” Courfeyrac hands him the paper. Enjolras squints at it, then turns to get his glasses before realizing Courfeyrac had grabbed them as well.    

     “Thank you.” With the glasses on and the paper carefully held between his hands, he realizes what it is. “Oh,” he says with a smile. “Yes. For Valjean.”   

     “Exactly. Do you want to give it to him today?”   

     “Yeah. Today.” He watches Courfeyrac dig in his closet. Courfeyrac comes back with a gray sweater. When he holds it up in question, Enjolras nods. They trade, Courfeyrac taking the check so Enjolras can pull the sweater over his t-shirt. Courfeyrac hands the check back to help adjust the fabric over the cast on his arm. It’s a quiet, calming exchange that Enjolras finds himself treasuring. This silent understanding that he can exist in with Combeferre and Courfeyrac is a familiar, comfortable life. If he focuses too long on the gratitude and appreciation for his two best friends filling his chest, it’ll bring a strong wave of tears. He’s too tired to cry so he forces himself to figure out what’s happening.    

     “Is that comfortable? Is it bunched weird?” Courfeyrac fiddles with the sweater, folding the sleeve before stretching it out again, trying to make sure it fits smoothly over his cast. It’s bothering him more than it’s annoying Enjolras. “Is that bugging you? Tell me if it’s uncomfortable.”    

     He only stops when Enjolras asks him where they’re going a third time. “Going to the doctors?”   

     “No.” He looks surprised at the question and recovers a split second too late, allowing Enjolras just enough time to catch it. “To dinner.”   

     “Dinner?” Enjolras frowns. At the unexpected answer, he forgets to question Courfeyrac the meaning of his startled expression. “Why? We should stay.” He stretches his broken arm out. “We can sleep. Not have to wear pants.”   

     Courfeyrac laughs loudly. “As nice as that sounds, I’m afraid we have to go.”   

     “To dinner,” Enjolras tries to confirm. “Right?”   

     After studying Enjolras for a minute, Courfeyrac grins widely. With both hands on either side of Enjolras’ face, Courfeyrac pulls him close to kiss his forehead. When they part, Enjolras crinkles his nose in a smile. “Right,” he says. “So come on. We can sleep in the car. I’ll make sure you sit next to Grantaire.”   

     “Grantaire’s here?”   

     “Yeah.”   

     “Can we see him?”   

     “Of course.” Courfeyrac pulls him in for another firm kiss to his forehead, this time in the middle of the scar that runs over his eye. The curving lines have smoothed considerably since June but they’re not gone. In fact, they’re thick scars, highlighting the damage for strangers. The few times Courfeyrac has gone for walks or to the Musain with Enjolras, he’s found himself hyper aware of the looks that linger for split seconds too long. He’s sure it’s nothing more than paranoia because outside of the scars, Enjolras is just as handsome as he was before the accident. He's always turned heads. Courfeyrac’s seen Grantaire trace the scars before when Enjolras has fallen asleep against his chest. When he asked about it, Grantaire replied something about how it’s the mark that he’s still alive. He liked the thought and tries to remember those words for when the anger stirs his blood.   

     Today it helps settle the bubbling concern in his chest because the confusion is nothing new. A normal side effect, Courfeyrac reminds himself. Because this is normal. The unsteadiness in his movements, the despondent look, the exhaustion in his eyes. All normal. What scares Courfeyrac is that they’re starting to expect this. But that’s a good thing. Or so he tells himself, because this is their life. Better to be pleasantly surprised than constantly disappointed. That kind of attitude won’t do Enjolras any good. Courfeyrac can only be there for him, simplify the confusion, and help ease him through the tougher days. Enjolras smiles at him, a small and easy to understand smile. It’s appreciative and grateful for all that they do for him. It’s as common as their shocked realization that Enjolras is alive. He’s still alive. Not normal and not okay but here and that’s all they can ask for.    

     “I’m going,” Enjolras pauses to look around the room. There’s a sudden flash of thought but it goes without a comment.    

     “Going where, E?” Courfeyrac gently encourages him. If he were to leave Enjolras alone, he has no doubt that the kid would be fast asleep in under two minutes.    

     “Going to find Grantaire. I’m going. Cause Grantaire’s here. Yes?”    

     “Yep. Let’s go find him.”    

     Enjolras smiles again. He thoughtlessly puts the check to the desk, forgetting what it’s for, and walks out of the room in search of Grantaire. Courfeyrac grabs the check and tucks it safely in his back pocket before following.    

     In the living room, the others are bundling up for the chilly evening. Enjolras grins at them, his eye catching Grantaire’s, but like the true idiot he is, he leans into the predictable Combeferre instead. Éponine and Courfeyrac share an annoyed look. One of them needs to step up. They both understand Grantaire’s caution. Any of them would be wary approaching a potential relationship with someone dealing with severe brain trauma. Courfeyrac knows that Enjolras is worried about interpreting the signs wrong, the few of them he’s able to pick up. What a fear to live with! To have feelings for someone but be so terrified that each moment between them is out of pity or the kindness of friends. What terrible positions to be in, for the both of them.    

     Courfeyrac makes a mental note to discuss this with Éponine. Maybe they can tap into their meddling skills to fix the situation. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Jehan. He knows it’s the same with Combeferre and Éponine and Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta. Enjolras doesn’t have that. Enjolras only has friends, which is great but it’s not the same. It’s not the same as knowing someone is in love with you, as being in love with someone, and exploring that together. That’s an entirely different level of comfort, support, and intimacy. Courfeyrac can’t say for certain that they love each other but there’s definitely the chance. It’s worth trying, at least. He watches as Combeferre helps Enjolras get his coat on. Life must seem lonely. Lonely and frightening. He’s lost everything. His words, his freedom, his social life. His ability to work. All of those years, the protests and blood, his words and his known life all sacrificed in trying to better the world. What has come of it? Who is better off now?    

     The least Courfeyrac can do is try to mend a bridge between him and Grantaire. In Jehan’s truck, he makes sure the two are in the back row together. The more time they spend together, the happier they both seem. And the more time they spend together, the higher the chances that they’ll finally just kiss again and move into a relationship. How wonderful that would be for Enjolras, Courfeyrac thinks, to have some semblance of a future. Even better than going back to school or starting a charity. It means he doesn’t have to rely on friendships, that he can look forward to the future /with someone. Éponine must be on the same page because she pulls Combeferre back before he can follow Enjolras. Although he doesn't make any attempt to hide his disapproval of the relationship, Combeferre doesn't say anything either. Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice the silent planning and only Grantaire’s small smile gives away his awareness. But five minutes into the drive, Enjolras falls asleep with his head against the window. Courfeyrac can only shrug because that was to be expected.    

     When they get to the doctor's house, Bahorel's truck and Musichetta's little car are already parked in the driveway. They're easily an hour late but Cosette had reassured Combeferre dinner would wait. Believing her doesn't make him feel any better about how late they are or how out of sorts Enjolras is guaranteed to be. Once parked, Grantaire moves to gently wake Enjolras up. It annoys Combeferre and he tries to step in but his girlfriend is purposely asking about dinner on Thursday and he's forced to ignore it. When he steps forward to walk alongside Enjolras, Éponine stands firmly by the door, again forcing him to let Grantaire head inside with Enjolras. He tells himself that this is a good thing, that he trusts Éponine and Courfeyrac. The giddy smiles and blushing grins aren't hard to miss. Much to his frustration, all Combeferre can see is this ending poorly, a mess of complicated tears and unspoken miscommunications that level out to something more painful than the scars.    

     “He’ll be fine,” Éponine whispers as they trail behind the others. Enjolras’ hand finds Grantaire’s and their fingers intertwine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s making the connection, silently asking for his support as they walk into the strange building. The sounds of their family can be heard from the porch and Grantaire squeezes his hand. “Enjolras is more than capable of expressing when he doesn’t want something and Grantaire is hyper aware of how he’s being received.”   

     Combeferre rolls his eyes. “I know. I still don’t like it.”   

     “But you don’t like it because it’s a scary step, not because it’s Grantaire. Right?”   

     “Of course. Before the accident, I would have completely encouraged them.”   

     She stops walking, forcing him to turn and face her. Cosette stands just inside the open door. She smiles uncertainly, then leaves the door cracked before politely disappearing to give them the moment. Éponine tilts his head at her boyfriend. “So now would you rather Enjolras be alone just because it might not end in a happy relationship?”   

     “He’s not alone. He has all of us. And I would rather him avoid the pain and complications of a messy relationship. At least for the time being. On most days he still doesn’t know what month it is. How are we to assume he’s capable of being a part of a functioning relationship?”   

     “Remembering the date and having a boyfriend are two very different things.”   

     “Perhaps but the sum of their meaning isn’t.”   

     “So it’s not a typical relationship.” She shrugs. He wonders if she really believes it’s as simply as that. “Would you be so against this if he was blind or deaf or paralyzed?”   

     “He’s not blind, deaf, or paralyzed. If those were the worst side effects of the head injury I would dance for joy.” He drops his gaze as he reminds her, “Brain damage is a different beast entirely.” He knows it’s as simple as that.   

     Éponine takes his hand in her own. “What’s a functioning relationship then? Because you could say that we don’t have a typical one.” His face twists guiltily. “But I understand that you are unable to be equally invested at this point and it works because I not only understand but encourage your time being focused on more important matters. Just knowing you’re there and we’re together, if only in title alone, means the world to me.”   

     “But we’re changing that,” Combeferre quickly reassures her.   

     “We are adjusting to something to better our relationship. How is that different than what Enjolras and Grantaire could do?”   

     “Because Enjolras can’t remember what month it is! He goes from physical therapy to speech lessons to doctors appointments and when he’s not in the hospital, he’s sleeping. Or trying to sleep. Or fighting sleep. He’s said almost fifteen words today and the most challenging thing he did was move from the couch to the bed!”    

     “I think waking up just now was probably the hardest thing he’s done,” she jokes. Combeferre doesn’t laugh. She sighs. “Couldn’t Grantaire have done that with him? Couldn’t he have been there with him?”   

     “Why would he want to?”   

     “Why do you want to?”   

     He laughs at the ridiculous question. “Where else would I be?”   

     “With me. Or at school. Or getting groceries, going for a run, visiting your parents?”   

     “You and I are going out Thursday. We are going to see more of each other, I promise. And school can wait. If at all. I don’t have to get a graduate degree.”   

     “You want to be a professor.” It’s blunt in her confusion. “You have to get a graduate degree to do that. What are you going to do instead?”   

     “I can be a consultant.” This isn’t the first time he’s thought of his long term future. Every time it’s he and Enjolras sitting in their apartment or at the Musain. Sometimes they’re driving to visit his parents together. It wouldn’t be the first time. He tells Éponine this, reminding her that his mother practically adopted Enjolras. “I have the luxury of being able to be there for him. My parents are picking up the bills until we figure out a long term solution. Larose said that Enjolras will eventually gain enough independence to be left alone. It’s just taking time, Ép.”   

     “Do you like lying with him? Do you like silently reading? Helping him through physical therapy lessons? Cooking each meal for him? Do you really like being woken up in the middle of the night because he’s having a terrible nightmare or a debilitating panic attack?”   

     Combeferre nods as she speaks. “Yes. One hundred precent, absolutely yes. I like being there for him. I like spending time with him, even if it’s just silently reading because there was a time that I was preparing myself to understand that I wouldn’t be able to do that again. I love watching him progress in therapy and get stronger. I have always cooked for Enjolras and Courfeyrac. They’re natural disasters in the kitchen and helping him get through the night or ease out of a panic attack is the least I can do. I’d do it every night. I’d be there for him every night. Happily.”   

     “Okay. Good. Now try to understand that Grantaire wants to do all of that.”   

     “We all want to do that.”   

     She rolls her eyes. “Yes but Grantaire wants to hold Enjolras’ hand and smile stupidly at him. He wants to kiss Enjolras, wake up next to Enjolras, take showers with Enjolras.”   

     “Enjolras isn’t physically ready for an active-”   

     “I’m talking about all the other aspects of a relationship that you and Courfeyrac get to look forward to with me and Jehan. Who does Enjolras have to look forward to?”   

     Combeferre thinks for a moment. This conversation is too similar to the one he had with Courfeyrac earlier in the week. Just as then, he knows he’s not wrong. Enjolras barely has the energy to walk to the Musain. How can he possibly hope to maintained a physical relationship? Why would Grantaire want the complications of a relationship without the guarantee that anything would change? And if it’s not going to change, then why pursue it. Combeferre’s not against Enjolras having a relationship but why the rush to start one? Knowing he’s not wrong doesn’t mean he’s right. “I doubt Enjolras is thinking about that level of a relationship.”   

     “Have you asked him?” Éponine waits for an answer she knows won’t follow. Once satisfied that her point has been made, she kisses him. “I’m just asking you to give them a chance. To give Grantaire a chance to prove he is not only capable but longing to be that person for Enjolras.”   

     He doesn’t respond in fear of admitting he’s worried, selfish, scared shitless. But he loves Éponine and he trusts her, so he nods his consent to at least take it into consideration. They walk into the house, right into a broken conversation between Enjolras and Valjean. Courfeyrac is standing behind him, ready if he’s needed but far enough back to give Enjolras the sense of control. Grantaire is hovering nearby, undoubtedly just waiting for Enjolras to be done talking so he can take his hand again. Before realizing it, Combeferre narrows his eyes at the man, questioning every motive and each intention. It’s only when Valjean speaks that he finally catches himself.

     “This is too much,” the man is saying. He tries to hand the check back. “Way, way too much. I can’t take it.”   

     Enjolras shakes his head, holding his broken arm to his chest so the man is forced to keep it. “No. Take it.”   

     “I can’t.”   

     “For others,” Enjolras tells him. He smiles at the man, nodding because that should explain it all.    

     “For others?” He repeats, clearly not understanding. Valjean is just as patient as he is in the hospital. His words are soft and encouraging in a way none of them can even begin to mimic. Valjean would wait hours for Enjolras to find that one word, the one explanation that he’s struggling to place and he would wait happily. “What do you mean?”    

     “For people. The people who need it. I can- I can pay. For them.” Enjolras pauses, licking his bottom lip. A moment passes where he can’t seem to read Valjean’s expression and he finally pulls his last card. “Please?”   

     Valjean looks down at the check in his hands, eyes widening at the number. “Thank you.” When he looks back to Enjolras, there is the slightest hint of threatening tears. “Thank you very much, Enjolras. This is incredibly generous. Thank you.”   

     He carefully folds the check and puts it safely in his pocket as a clear sign that he’s accepting the charity. Enjolras’ smile is full of relief and pride. It’s the first time since the accident he’s been able to do something for someone else. By Combeferre’s math, this check can cover the bills for over a dozen of people. He enthusiastically returns the hug from the old man. It’s a new sight but it feels familiar. Valjean has been nothing but kind and helpful to Enjolras and there’s not question he’s carved out a special place in the doctor’s heart.    

     For Combeferre, it’s a powerful reassurance that Enjolras is loved and well taken care of, that Enjolras doesn’t have just him or Courfeyrac to rely on. He knows that if there was no one else, no friends or father, Valjean would be the one to step up and do everything in his power to make sure Enjolras was safe and loved. It’s enough for him to forget about Grantaire and what that all could mean. The tension of these decisions, of these possible scenarios and his complete lack of answers all fades from his shoulders as he’s directed to the already full table. With the familiarity of his friends, he’s surprised at how effortlessly he falls into the dinner, the lively conversation and the delicious food.    

     In the immense amount of energy it seemed to get there, Combeferre finds himself completely at ease at the table. His smile is quick, the conversation easy. The food is as wonderful as to be expected from Cosette, and the house itself is incredibly warm and comfortable, reminding him of his childhood home with an unusually heavy sense of nostalgia. Thoughts of visiting his parents linger just on the tip of his tongue. Maybe he and Enjolras can visit them for a weekend. They would love it but it would depend on whether or not Enjolras would be able to travel. With Enjolras on one side, Éponine on the other, and a potential visit home, he can’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed.    

     After the food is devoured, no one stands in fear of ending the night. It’s not until Marius jumps up to wash the dishes that the dinner officially ends but somehow, to the magic of Valjean’s home, they end up in the living room. It had to be Cosette making coffee or Bahorel’s story telling, maybe the fact that Enjolras was still awake or how they all felt the warmth of a home and security they haven’t felt since the accident. Whatever the reason, Combeferre doesn’t complain. Not until that easy, relaxed feeling from earlier is overran with the painful understanding of what Enjolras’ head resting on Grantaire’s shoulder could mean. He doesn’t want to leave but he can’t trust himself not to try and put himself between them so he excuses himself to the kitchen with the hope of calming his complicated thoughts. Grantaire is a good man and Éponine trusts him. Courfeyrac trusts him. Enjolras could love him. He could benefit greatly from a loving, caring relationship with Grantaire. Or it could be terrible. It could end in heartache and tragedy, bringing only more pain to someone so clearly undeserving.    

     The doctor’s rich voice calls his name, startling Combeferre into realizing he had been staring out of the dark window. The coffee cup sits forgotten in the sink. Valjean smiles kindly, tilting his head curiously at the younger man. It’s an inquisitive look that he’s never given Enjolras. Combeferre is suddenly a hundred times more grateful for the man and his truly incredible heart because that one look feels like Valjean can dig into his soul if he wanted to. It’s unnerving and comforting, encouraging him to spill every concern that has ever stolen a moment’s sleep. He’s internally grateful that Enjolras doesn’t know the threat of that kind of examination. “Is everything alright?”   

     “Yes. Of course. In fact, it’s wonderful.” He smiles at the man, momentarily forgetting Enjolras and his potential relationship in exchange of being overwhelmingly struck by how delightful something as simple as a dinner has been. “Thank you. For all of this. I can’t imagine going through this without your support.”   

     “Thank you for coming.” Valjean studies him for a moment, smile as kind as ever. “What’s bothering you? You’ve barely said a word all night.”   

     “You know, doc,” Combeferre laughs, “I need to stop sitting in on Enjolras’ lessons. Clearly you’ve added me to your patient list.”   

     “Well I can more than afford it now, thanks to his generous donation.”   

     “It was his idea. He wanted to thank you. We wrote it out to you personally instead of the hospital because we trust you to help as many people as you can.”   

     “Thank you. It is very, very generous. I already have patients in mind who could use that burden lifted.”   

     “Good. He’ll be glad to hear that.”   

     “And you?”   

     “Me? I’m very happy to hear it. When he asked me to help, I wasn’t the least bit surprised.” Laughter erupts from the other room.    

     “I’m curious as to why you are upset,” Valjean clarifies. “I haven’t forgotten.”   

     Combeferre rolls his eyes but smiles. He finds it strange where you can find a parental figure when you least suspect you’d need it. Enjolras needs him to be strong but being strong doesn’t mean he can’t reach out. In the end, it’s better to vent and rant to Valjean than snapping at Enjolras. Maybe this way they can avoid another fight like the one earlier in the week. He’d do anything to avoid from fighting with Enjolras, even consider this Grantaire situation. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand why they’re pushing this relationship with Grantaire. I know it’s not fair to keep a relationship from forming, I know that. And I know that Enjolras and Grantaire get along well, especially since he’s come home. I can see that they’re close and getting closer but I can’t stop picture what could go wrong.”   

     When he’s done, he looks up to the older man with the eager hope of finding a solution. Valjean nods thoughtfully. His smile finally dropped. “What scares you so much?”   

     “Enjolras doesn’t have the ability to communicate.”   

     “You know that’s not true,” Valjean reprimands him immediately. It’s not sharp but stern.   

     “Yes, I know.” Combeferre sighs. He dislodges his glasses as he rubs his eyes. “I know that. I’m just saying that in a relationship, there are situations that may come up and he’s not ready for that. He’s not ready for a boyfriend and dates and a serious, committed relationship. He’s not strong enough for that and he’s not strong enough for a painful break-up.” He steps to the side so he can see into the living room. Combeferre points to his best friend but looks at Valjean. “I mean, come on. Look at him! He has no clue where he is right now.”    

     With the patience of a father dealing with an angered child, Valjean takes the time to consider the boy’s point. Watching Enjolras, he can see that it’s a valid argument but not enough to sway his decision. The listlessness in Enjolras’ eyes is easy to see. The exhaustion sits in the way he leans against Grantaire. His gaze is lowered to the coffee table, either uninterested or unable to follow the conversation around him. But his smile is consistent. He laughs when they laugh. When Grantaire whispers something to him, Enjolras looks up and responds. The interaction is short but telling to the power of their relationship. Grantaire has the influence to encourage Enjolras to fight through the exhausted haze. Valjean knows that’s invaluable. He turns back to Combeferre and smiles. “Despite that, he looks happy.”   

     “Of course he is.” Combeferre looks surprised by the statement. “He’s surrounded by friends.” 

     The man knits his brow. He looks back out to the living room. “Grantaire knew Enjolras before the accident, right?”   

     “Yeah.”   

     “You said, before Enjolras was released that you thought that Grantaire could have loved him before, right?”   

     Combeferre’s mouth twitches ever so slightly. “Yes. But!” He takes an motivated step closer as he strengthens his argument. “But even then he was too afraid of starting something because it could mess up the dynamics of the group. Imagine what this could do if it went bad.”   

     Valjean turns away from the living room and the children filling it. He leans against the counter to look at Combeferre with a sigh. “My opinion?”   

     “Please.”   

     “If he loved Enjolras before and still loves Enjolras now, then I don’t know if you have more reliable hands to place your friend’s heart.” Valjean pauses to let the betrayal and hurt cross Combeferre’s face. When it passes, the boy just looks tired. “Grantaire has been there every step of the way. He knows what to expect and he knows what’s getting into if he pursues a relationship. I don’t know him well but I just can’t see Grantaire taking Enjolras out to a fancy restaurant or a rooftop bar for drinks with the sole intention of hooking up. I think he just wants to be with Enjolras. This isn’t a stranger Enjolras met on the street. It’s someone he knows, someone he trusts, someone he’s comfortable with.”   

     “So you think I should trust him,” Combeferre asks. It’s less of a question and more of a slow acceptance of defeat.     

     “I think you should let this run it’s course. See what happens. Try not to fight so hard. It’s only stressing you out and adding an extra layer of complication to what seems like an inevitable relationship.”    

     The words fill Combeferre’s chest until he’s nodding along with Valjean’s advice. Coming from someone so much older and so highly respected, Combeferre doesn’t feel like he has any other option than agree. He doesn’t want to argue. He wants this burden lifted. Combeferre smiles. He wants to sleep. Exhaustion is weighing his bones down. After sincerely thanking the kind old man, Combeferre joins his family in the living room. Enjolras has his eyes closed where his head is still lying against Grantaire’s chest. The artist has his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, keeping him close. Combeferre forces himself to ignore the intimate scene. He sits on the arm of the couch, next to Éponine. She takes his hand in her own. He takes the time to kiss the back of her hand in response, Valjean’s words ringing in his ears, but not a moment after that he turns back to Enjolras. “Is he asleep?”   

     The question puts an abrupt end to the conversation. Grantaire seems surprised to see that the question’s directed at him. He looks to Courfeyrac, who he assumed would be addressed with something as important as Enjolras. Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows, waiting, just like the others, for Grantaire to take the lead. The best Grantaire can give Combeferre is an uncertain shrug. He doesn’t think Enjolras is asleep, at least not yet. Anxiously, he waits for Combeferre to nod or respond or do something other than just stare at Grantaire with that frighteningly narrowed look. After a long, tense silence Combeferre stands up to bend in front of Enjolras. Grantaire takes the moment to look hopefully to Éponine but she can only smile.

     In front of the couch, Combeferre taps his friend’s cheek a few times until Enjolras pulls his head up with a deep breath. With a few strong blinks, his vision clears and he smiles at Combeferre. With his finger, he taps a silent hello to his friend’s arm. “Hey, E. Are you ready to go home?”   

     Enjolras narrows his eyes, then studies the room. When he turns back to Combeferre, he shakes his head. “No.”   

     “No what?”   

     “No going.” Enjolras shifts on the couch so he can lie lower. His eyes close as soon as his head settles on the man’s chest.    

     “Maybe we can all come back to your place,” Jehan suggests from his place on the fireplace. Next to him, Courfeyrac nods excitably. Neither seem to mind the roaring fire behind them.   

     Combeferre visibly cringes. He slowly shakes his head as if he wasn’t already immediately against it. “No. I don’t think that’s such a great idea.”   

     “Why not? In the last ten hours, he’s slept for eight,” Courfeyrac tells him. It’s an unnecessary reminder but he stands up to Combeferre just enough to let him agree without forcing him into the decision. Nothing sounds better than leaving Valjean’s incredibly warm and inviting home to spend it with his family in their own home. Now that Enjolras doesn’t have to worry about the bills, maybe they can find a better apartment, something bigger and nicer. Maybe even something with a doorman. Their place barely fits everyone but there certainly could be an apartment that would fit their eclectic friends. Maybe even something big enough for Éponine and Jehan to move in. They already semi-live there anyway. He makes a note to speak to Combeferre about. But right now, he’s not ready to leave his family. “You know by the time we get home, he’ll be wide awake. Having everyone there will wear him out faster. Maybe he can even get into a better sleep schedule.”   

     “It’s Sunday night.” Combeferre closes his eyes as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Everyone will have to be up and going pretty early, Courf. I don’t want to wake him up from the noise.”   

     Courfeyrac knits his brow. “It’s Saturday, Ferre.”   

     He blinks at his Courfeyrac. “What?”   

     “It’s Saturday. Remember? We decided to have the dinner this week but Valjean asked to make it Saturday instead of Sunday,” Courfeyrac explains, making sure he’s not patronizing. He ignores the concerned way Éponine tilts her head at her boyfriend, knowing all of this can be solved Thursday. “He has to drive to Connecticut Monday morning. He didn’t want to cut time with us short but he also didn’t want to have to wait another week either.”   

     “Oh. Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced, just tired. Éponine stands up to hug her boyfriend. Combeferre wraps his arms around her with a sigh. “Okay,” he finally says. “Fine. Then I’m sure it’ll be great.”   

     With that, the night at Valjean’s reluctantly ends. They each take the time to thank him, including Enjolras even though Courfeyrac can bet he has no idea what he's thanking him for specifically. Certainly there’s a long list but the dinner that he slept almost entirely through probably isn’t up there. He doesn’t fall asleep on the car ride home but he’s quiet as he fights it the entire drive. But as Courfeyrac had predicted, once in the apartment Enjolras is a different person. He’s talking and laughing, moving about from one side of the living room to the other. They put in a movie, Enjolras almost seems annoyed by the social norms of being quiet and still so as to not distract the others. When Éponine finally convinces Combeferre to go to bed with her, Enjolras is chatting away with Bahorel and Feuilly. When Jehan pulls Courfeyrac to his bedroom, Enjolras is laughing and signing with Grantaire.    

     The next morning, Courfeyrac wakes up to a full apartment. Cosette, Musichetta, and Bahorel are busy bustling around the kitchen while Éponine and Marius set the table. On the couch, Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet are throwing a ball back and forth as they talk. The news is on but muted. Courfeyrac searches for Enjolras, then Jehan. Finding neither, he walks into the busy apartment. The vibe is similar to the excited, antsy energy that would fill their lives right before a protest. He spots Combeferre, standing just outside Enjolras’ bedroom door, and stumbles sleepily to him. Combeferre’s staring into the room, quiet and distracted.    

     “Hey Ferre,” Courfeyrac greets. Combeferre looks over to him to offer him a short smile before turning back to the bedroom. Through the small crack of the door, they can easily see Enjolras and Grantaire snuggled up under the thick quilts. “Where’s Jehan?”

     “Finishing some stuff in my room,” Combeferre tells him.    

     “Right.” He nods. They’re quiet for a moment, watching the way Enjolras shifts a little more onto Grantaire’s chest. Courfeyrac glances over to Combeferre. His smile grows when he sees the flicker of amusement on his face. “They’re pretty cute, aren’t they?”   

     Combeferre looks at him. Seeing the smirk on Courfeyrac’s face, he rolls his eyes. He wishes his smile would drop too but it doesn’t seem possible or fair. He slept wonderfully and apparently Enjolras did too. Even though it’s not a result of his own doing, Combeferre’s still surprisingly content with how the night went because he got to sleep next to Éponine while Enjolras was safe under Grantaire's watchful eye. Courfeyrac laughs at him just loudly enough for the other two to stir a little. Combeferre shoves him playfully. “Whatever.”


	43. February 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it has been almost a year- I'm so sorry! I have two excuses although they're, admittedly, lame. School has been absolutely crazy (working four jobs to pay tuition really sucks) and I have about thirteen other stories I've been distracted by. I will, I promise, be better! New years resolution and all. The three stories I have posted will be finished soon! I kind of don't want to end them, which is one of the reasons I've been procrastinating. 
> 
> Anyway, here is the next chapter! Hope you all enjoy! I look forward to reading any comments and thoughts!

          Enjolras has been awake for a while now. Not only awake but proactive and efficient. Well kind of efficient. Efficient in his standards. He has showered, washed his face, brushed his teeth. Clean boxers are as far as he’s gotten after that but hey, it’s better than most days.     

     Though it’s no where near the normal level of efficiency he could accomplish last year. _Normal is a relative term_ , he hears Valjean tells him and his upper lip curls in frustration. He knows he’s not supposed to think that way. They’ve never told him explicitly that he won’t be the same again. Not that he can remember at least. It’s the unspoken elephant in every corner of his world. Where it may be unrealistic to think that he’ll be normal again, normal based on last years standards, it’s not impossible. There’s a chance. There’s always a chance. Enjolras refuses to believe there isn’t the possibility to improve.    

     It’s just like his hand. His right hand may tremble when he’s flustered, be less responsive after a long day, or ache in the cold but it’s there. He has pins and plates and screws in it but it’s there. He’ll be able to write legibly, eventually, and he’ll be able to use it reliably. It’s not gone. It’s still there, in front of him and getting stronger every day. Well almost every day. Kind of every day. Today he can close his hand but can’t squeeze it into tight fist. The day before in physical therapy he couldn’t keep the foam ball in his hand despite being able to draw with Grantaire’s pens the day before that. But his head. He’s still alert and moving and thinking and he can get better. He can get back to normal. It’ll just take some time. He has time. Enjolras has all the time in the world. According to Combeferre, at least.     

     Realizing he’s scratching at the scar along his cheekbone, he sighs and drops his hand. Dante winds himself around Enjolras’s legs and the knotted panic in his chest fades to a lesser, more manageable degree. It’s a cheap, easy distraction that slows the frenzy of extreme emotions to an annoying pinprick in the back of his neck opposed to the crashing waves panic of mania, anger or confusion.     

     As he picks up the cat, he decides it’s easy enough to fall into an ignorant bliss. At least for right now. His head feels clear and unlike the usual tangled way his thoughts get caught up together, they’re steady and kind of logically connected. If he doesn’t think too hard on one thing for too long. He’s not tired or fighting off migraines or trying to keep his next task in mind. Today would be a good day to ponder the future, to make decisions and be proactive and be efficient. Today he’s going to his old office for the first time. First time he can remember, at least.    

     It spurs an apprehensive and nervous kind of energy and it’s wrapped together in a giddy excitement. The cat purrs in his arms, the fur unbelievably soft against Enjolras’s bare chest and maybe he wasn’t as efficient as he thought he was this morning because he’s still only wearing boxers.    

     He wanders into the kitchen, suddenly feeling too anxious to stay in his room. From Courfeyrac’s bedroom, Enjolras can hear him moving around. It sounds like he’s singing or practicing an opening argument, something with a steady and rhythmic cadence. For several minutes, Enjolras scratches behind the kitten’s ears and listens to Courfeyrac’s muffled voice. He’s kind of, sort of, maybe waiting for Combeferre to come out and offer him a distraction. Or reassurance. A hug maybe. But Combeferre doesn’t come into the kitchen. Neither does Courfeyrac. Eventually he sighs, part in frustration and part in disappointment, then puts the kitten on the counter. Dante meows at him and Enjolras can sympathize, knowing exactly how it feels when he’s not ready for someone to leave him. But once he fills Dante’s bowl for breakfast, the cat is happily distracted.    

     Enjolras grabs an apple on his way back to his bedroom, then promptly forgets about it after a few bites when his phone dings. After finding his glasses, he sits on the bed to read the missed messages he has. He almost always has a message from a friend and when he remembers, he apologizes for being so bad at responding.    

     **From Bahorel [2:55 am]**

     _Enjollllllrsa!! its giong tobe a good dya  
_

     **From Combeferre [at 8:12 am]**

_Morning E! Sleep well?_

    He frowns and doesn’t respond.

**From Grantaire [at 9:28 am]**

  _Lunch after the office today?_

    Enjolras bites his bottom lip against a smile and doesn’t respond. He gets off the bed and stalks into Courfeyrac’s bedroom. Courfeyrac stops buttoning the last two buttons on his shirt to look at him. He raises his eyebrow and smiles. “You know I love that look on you,” he says with a wave of his hand at Enjolras’s boxers, “but pants might be more acceptable for this weather.”

    “Can we?” Enjolras ignores him and holds out his phone.

    “Can we what?”

    “Can we go?”

    Courfeyrac tilts the phone to see the screen better. “Of course we can get lunch with R but he’s only asking you to lunch. Not me and you.” He finishes buttoning his shirt and moves to his closet. “You don’t have to ask permission like that E.”

    He stops typing out his response to Grantaire to look at Courfeyrac. “Yes I do.”

    “Do what?” Courfeyrac asks, his back to Enjolras as he debates between two cardigans.

    “Ask. Have to ask.” He frowns at Courfeyrac, annoyed that he’s making him explain this but the glare goes unseen. “I don’t go alone.”

    Deciding on a blue cardigan, Courfeyrac turns back to him. “Alone with Grantaire?”

    Enjolras nods.

    “Sure you can.”

    It wouldn’t be the first time he’s alone with Grantaire but the idea of going alone, of being alone, sends a hot panic through out his chest. “I can?” he asks after a moment. He would hate how small he sounds if he could focus on anything other than the roaring panic in his ears and the sudden undercurrent of fear catching his feet. “I can go alone?”

    “Of course you can. We will walk to the Musain after the office. Tell him to meet you there.”

    “You,” he starts, scratching the scar on his forehead. “We will go to the Musain. Then,” he trails off.

    “Then you and Grantaire eat lunch. Either at the Musain or here, if you’d like. Whatever you decide on.” Courfeyrac takes a moment to smile at him before buttoning the cardigan.

    “Okay.” Enjolras nods after a long minute and a few breaths. “Okay. You walk to the Musain.” He waits for Courfeyrac to nod. Enjolras grins. “Good. Thanks.”

    “Yeah.” He smirks and Enjolras should have caught it. “It’ll be like a real date.”

    Enjolras glances up, running over the words. He nods, then knits his brow and shakes his head. In his hand, the phone dings. “What?”

    Courfeyrac sits on the edge of the bed. Before answering, he bends to tie his shoes. Enjolras waits. Looking up, Courfeyrac grins. “A real date.”

    “A date,” he repeats.

    “Yes.”

    “No.”

    “Yeah.”

    “No.”

    “Sure it is.”

    “No.”

    “Why not?”

    “No.” Enjolras huffs out a frustrated breath and looks away for a moment. Only once he’s found the right words for his response does he look back. “We’re friends.”

    “Right now but you could be more.”

    “No.”

    “Yes.”

    “No.”

    Courfeyrac throws up his hands, laughing like Enjolras is just so damn entertaining. Enjolras misses what’s funny. “Why not?”

    “Because!” Missing the word, Enjolras points at his head. A beat passes. “I’m not normal.”

    The look Courfeyrac gives him is caught between reprimanding and amused. He raises his eyebrows as he bites back a smile, tilting his head to the side. Somehow, though, he manages to do it without making Enjolras feel like he’s a child. Courfeyrac crosses his arms over his chest. “Hey now. What would Valjean say?”

    Enjolras rolls his eyes, not wanting to answer. Courfeyrac is patient but he can wait Courfeyrac out. It usually doesn’t take too long, any little distraction can move him past a could be battle but Enjolras isn’t naive enough to think he’s won. Courfeyrac may be easier to manipulate than Combeferre but once he decides to dig in his feet, Enjolras doesn't have chance. He prefers Combeferre at those moments because where Combeferre won’t drop an issue, it’s easier to guilt him into compromising and Enjolras only feels a quiet tightening in his chest guilty about it. Enjolras considers it and, feeling “It’s relative.”

    “And Combeferre?”

    This one makes him feel guilty. His cheeks flush red and he has to drop his gaze to his bare feet as he answers. “I’m not dead.”

    Courfeyrac doesn’t respond right away. He waits until Enjolras makes eye contact. There’s a different look on his face, serious but relaxed. It’s a familiar look, one of genuine interest and Enjolras gets a flash of a time before the accident when he would have civil debates about a meaning of this court decision or that international conflict. It’s a look that waits for Enjolras’s honest, well-considered answer so he can give Enjolras his honest, well-considered feedback. “What do you think Grantaire would say?”

    It takes Enjolras a little while to decide he doesn’t have a response. He shrugs. That he wasn’t expecting. “I don’t ask. I don’t know.”

    “I know.”

    “You know?”

    “Well no.” This time Courfeyrac shrugs. “But I can guess. Wanna hear it?”

    Dante runs into the room, jumping on to the bed just as Courfeyrac stands up. Enjolras watches the gray cat make circles on Courfeyrac’s pillow. He doesn’t know if he wants to hear it but for some reason he nods. “What?”

    “Well I think he’d say something like what is normal now isn’t what was normal a year ago. That our new normal isn’t the same but it’s not bad.”

    “Is bad.”

    “No. It’s harder,” Courfeyrac corrects. For the first time in the conversation, his voice grows stern. “That doesn’t mean it’s bad. The battles are different. That’s all.”

    Enjolras frowns at him. He looks down at his phone, focusing on seeing the text to confirm lunch with Grantaire before frowning at Courfeyrac again. “Whatever,” is all he can think to say.

    “Come on,” Courfeyrac asks, following Enjolras out of the bedroom. “That was pretty good. And tell me, seriously E, why wouldn’t he want to date you?”

    Enjolras glares at him. “Why would he?”

    “Because you’re smart and handsome and fun and funny and inspiring and now that you’re putting on some more weight you’re just great to snuggle with. Before you were a little boney but now, you’ve really hit the sweet spot.” He pinches Enjolras’s sides. Enjolras pushes his hands away, annoyed at himself for laughing. It takes him a moment to compose himself. He takes a few steps back. Courfeyrac doesn’t close the gap between them and it’s one of the uncountable reasons why Enjolras loves the man.

    “I nap,” Enjolras says like it’s all he needs to defend himself. “I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t know and I don’t talk and it’s hard. It’s hard. I’m hard.”

    “You’re damn right you are.” Courfeyrac winks at him. It takes a moment but Enjolras catches on and rolls his eyes. He walks into the kitchen for no reason other then to have something to do. A minute ticks by. Enjolras avoids eye contact. Running his fingers along the counter, opening and closing the fridge, moving Dante’s bowl half an inch over with his bare foot. Eventually he looks back to Courfeyrac, whose voice is void of any jest. “Enjolras. He knew you before the accident and he knows you now. I think, personally, he liked you before and I think, personally, that he likes you know. If you like him, it might be worth just asking.”

    Enjolras runs quietly through the words. If he closes his eyes, he can smell metallic paint and coffee, something specific to Grantaire. He can feel Grantaire’s arms around him, soft and reliable. He wants to tell Grantaire about this morning, where he was proactive and efficient, and eventually fall sleep against his chest so he can wake up and the first thing he’ll know is that smell of coffee and metal and for a moment, he’ll feel normal.

    Courfeyrac is looking at him with a soft, patiently eager expression because he sees Enjolras’s smile before Enjolras realizes it. “Are you going to ask him?”

    Forcing the smile off his face, Enjolras tries to only shrugs. “Whatever.”

    Once he turns away, his face breaks out in that betraying smile again.- In his hand, the phone dings. Enjolras faces Courfeyrac again, grinning without realizing it. “Also,” he says, “where is Combeferre?”

    “He spent the night with Éponine,” Courfeyrac answers. He smiles that knowing way at Enjolras, like he knows exactly what’s going to happen, but he doesn’t bring up Grantaire again. Enjolras is grateful for it.

    “Oh. Good. Good for him.” When he thinks about Grantaire, the sudden cold pit in his stomach doesn’t seem as painful. He’s a grown man. He can go one night without his friend. He has gone one night without his friend because he was efficient today without tangled, knotted thoughts and he would have remembered Combeferre saying goodbye. He must have left last night. Enjolras slept through most of the night. He didn’t need Combeferre. He doesn’t need Combeferre because he’s a grown man. A grown man shouldn’t feel a buzzing static in his fingers just because his friend stayed away for a night. A grown man should feel like a hand is pulling at this lung, making it harder and harder to breathe at the thought that he was alone all night even though he wasn’t.

    Enjolras shakes his head, physically forcing the growing panic away. This morning has been a good one, efficient and clear. It’s easier, well possible, to distract himself away from all the fear and panic and slow collapsing of his chest today. So instead he focuses on the fact that he’s still only in a pair of boxers and studies Courfeyrac, looking at the khakis and cardigan and button down with a puzzled frown. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

    They wore suits to work. Stupidly expensive suits in Enjolras’s opinion but he had no doubt that they looked put-together and powerful and impressive and it was carried over into the courtroom. None of his suits fit anymore. Not much fits anymore. One pair of jeans still fit but that’s probably because they were tighter than they should have been anyway. Fueled by the pride of how efficient he was this morning, he makes a mental note to get new clothes. Mental notes don’t stay long. After a while, he can convince himself he’s never made any and so really he’s never lost any.

    “What?” Courfeyrac puts his hands out and spins. “Don’t I look good?”

    Enjolras threads his fingers through his hair, thinking. Of course Courfeyrac looks good. He looks normal. “What am I wearing?”

    “What about your blue pants?”

    “They’re too big.”

    Courfeyrac nods. “You can wear your dark jeans.”

    “Not nice enough.”

    “Okay, then what about your blue twill pants? Not the slacks but the thinner ones. They aren’t as warm but we’re not walking too far.”

    Enjolras tilts his head because he’s pretty sure he just answered that question. “They’re too big.”

    “The blue twill ones. They’ll be in your bottom drawer. Trust me.”

    Repeating it doesn’t help Enjolras understand it but he nods anyway. “With? A button down?”

    Courfeyrac thinks for a moment as he pours the coffee into two travel cups. “No. I’d wear your gray sweater. With a thermal underneath. It’ll be warmer and more comfortable.”

    In his hand, the phone dings again. Enjolras thanks Courfeyrac and promises he’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. Before getting dressed he sits on the bed and responds to the messages from his friends. He finds the pants Courfeyrac mentioned in his drawer and doesn’t know why he’s surprised when they fit. He doesn’t find the sweater but Courfeyrac seems unbothered when Enjolras asks him to help. A belt is necessary but once he’s dressed he’s a little impressed with himself. Courfeyrac whistles as Enjolras studies his reflection in the bathroom mirror. For the first time, he’s not completely unhappy about what he sees. He tells himself the glassy look in his eyes is only in his head and that the scars aren’t as dark as he thinks they are and he’s not as pale as he looks. After convincing himself that his hand doesn’t noticeably shake the way he thinks it does and finally believing that his black glasses actually make him look as trendy as Courfeyrac constantly tells him, Enjolras feels kind of, sort of, maybe a little normal.

  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
     The walk is uneventful and unfamiliar. He keeps his red beanie on as he trails alongside Courfeyrac. Pulled low enough and it can cover the scar over his eyebrow and because it pushes his hair down flat against his neck, it covers the scar below his ear. It’s gray outside, just cold enough to justify a hat. He busies himself by tugging and pulling on his hat as he follows Courfeyrac across one street, then another. It’s easy to listen to the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice and focus on responding instead of the way a cold, bitter fear begins to creep into his chest. He’s feeling confident. Well kind of confident. He felt confident and excited and eager. But now, the closer they get to the office, the harder everything is starting to get. His breath catches in his throat, Courfeyrac’s voice is harder to understand, he stumbles twice over the curb and runs into an old lady, then whispers a fumbled apology. The growing panic nestles deep in his chest, sitting between his ribs, and every minute that passes the louder the roaring in his ears gets.

    Outside a building, Courfeyrac stops and faces him. He smiles gently and signs as he speaks and Enjolras isn’t sure why he’s so surprised that his friend has noticed his increasing panic. He’s never as subtle as he thinks he is. “As soon as you’re ready to go, just say the word.”

    Enjolras frowns, looking at the door, then the street. He bites his lip. A frigid breeze stings his chapped lips. Courfeyrac squeezes his arm. Enjolras looks at him and takes a step closer. Finally he connects the block with years of memories. There’s a bagel kiosk across the street, a sandwich shop next door, and there should be a coffee shop around the corner where the barista always added a scone to his order along with her phone number.

    “We’re here,” he says to Courfeyrac.

    “Yeah.” Courfeyrac nods. He’s watching Enjolras closely, waiting for a hint as to what to expect so he can prepare how to respond. “What do you want to do?”

    “I have to go say hi.”

    “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Except physical therapy and eating, Enjolras wants to say because it counters Courfeyrac’s point. They can’t tell him to embrace agency only some of the time. He’ll never learn when it counts or when he’s just being petulant. “We can always say you had a doctor’s appointment. Or just not give them an excuse.” He squeezes Enjolras’s arm again. “Seriously. We can grab ice cream on the way home and watch a bunch of movies instead.”

    “No.” Enjolras looks at the glass face of the building. It stretches high above them, daunting, and casts a chilled shadow across the sidewalk. “I want to go say hi. I’m okay. I’m fine. And after I have a date.”

   Courfeyrac drops his head back in a quick laugh. He throws his arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and pulls him close enough to kiss the side of his face. His arm stays there as the walk into the building.

    In the elevator, he steps away. Enjolras debates closing the distance, wanting that steady and warm presence but the doors open to their floor before he can make a decision and there’s an almost shrill shout around his name, startling him. It’s the only warning he gets before the secretary’s arms are thrown around his neck. The sudden hug forces him back a few steps. Courfeyrac’s hand is on his back as Enjolras tries to regain his balance. The woman doesn’t let go or loosen her grip. If anything she tightens the embrace. She’s saying something in his ear and he tries diligently to understand what it is, wanting nothing more than to give her the respect of his attention, but the sudden embrace and the panic of returning to his office is creating dense clouds of confusion. They roll in, echoing and roaring behind his thoughts, stealing not only his attention but his energy and focus in a way that makes him question whether or not it’s worth the fight today. In a moment, he’s suddenly amped up and exhausted, energized and drained.

    The woman steps back but keeps both her hands on either side of his face. Her fingers brush along the scar on his cheek. He’s too focused trying to think through the ringing in his ears to flinch yet he’s suddenly aware that Courfeyrac’s hand is still on his back and it’s a clear weight through the dense fog.

    “Look at you!” The woman grins. Enjolras knows her name. He knows her face and the cedar smell of her perfume and the bright gold watch on her right wrist. But her name is buried too deep under the rolling cloud for him to find. “Handsome as ever! It’s so nice to have you back here. Finally feels like it should again.”

    He wants to tell her this isn’t a new routine. That even if he was allowed to start working again, he doesn’t deserve to work here. He can’t work here. He isn’t capable of feeding himself because he isn’t supposed to work the stove. He needs help dressing himself. Getting himself here would be impossible and probably dangerous.

    This morning it took him hours to get out of his boxers. It’s unlikely, if not impossible, for him to ever be as efficient and proactive as he was a year ago to make him qualified to be the right-hand to a name partner in one of the top law firms in the country. Certainly she knows that. Clearly she’s just being kind. He wants to explain his position, how he’s so far away from normal that he’ll never get back, and thank her for the thoughtful words. But the rolling cloud is getting darker and heavier, pressing down on his shoulders and sending shivers down his spine. Nodding is all he can manage.

    Courfeyrac is saying something that makes her laugh. Seeing the opportunity, Enjolras straightens to his full height and takes half a step back so she drops her hands. Her smile doesn’t falter so he doesn’t feel rude doing it. Courfeyrac charms his way effortlessly for another minute before finding an excuse to leave.

    The woman puts her hand on Enjolras’s arm and squeezes. “You make sure you come say goodbye before you leave, okay?”

    “Okay,” he repeats. His voice isn’t trustworthy and a crackle of tightness escapes in that one word. He clears his throat, then says it again. For some reason it makes her grin grow wider.

    Courfeyrac’s hand on his back steers him away towards the hallway. Half the people smile brightly at him and the other half throw their arms around his neck. Enjolras either waves or returns the hugs but can’t put one name to one face. He finds memories and emotions tied to each person, except for two new interns, but doesn’t find any words. No one seems to mind that Enjolras doesn’t say anything but repeat the occasional word and if they do, he doesn’t notice. Courfeyrac talks enough for them both. He answers questions Enjolras doesn’t hear, tells jokes when Enjolras doesn’t respond, and makes excuses to leave the moment before Enjolras is about to ask him to go.

    After some time Enjolras finds himself in Courfeyrac’s office with Marius and Bossuet. They banter and joke, tease and debate. The conversation is too fast for Enjolras, gliding over his head but their voices are warm and familiar. He feels a little guilty spending his first time back at the office with people he sees everyday but it doesn’t take more than a bubbling giggle from Bossuet or a smile from Courfeyrac to let him forget about it. It helps that he doesn’t want to see anyone else anyway.

    Here they know it’s okay not to look for a response, to sign anything they really want to get him to understand, and to let him quietly watch with no expectations. Enjolras already beat all of their expectations by surviving.

    He’s sitting in Courfeyrac’s plush rolling chair with his red hat on. Courfeyrac sits on the corner of his desk, throwing a rubber band ball back and forth with Marius. Every now and then Courfeyrac tosses it to Enjolras when he hasn’t acknowledged them for a few minutes.

    There’s a knock on the door. Or there must have been because Courfeyrac calls someone in and the others turn to look. Enjolras follows their gaze, looking away from photos on Courfeyrac’s desk. Three out of the four have Enjolras in them. One couldn’t have been taken more than a few months ago because he still has his cast on in the photo.

    The door opens and Lamarque steps in. Enjolras smiles, surprised, but it’s nothing like the grin that brightens the old man’s face.

    “Hey, kid! I heard you were here.” Lamarque hesitates between the doorway, smiling at Enjolras like he can’t really trust the sight. Enjolras stands up, going to shake the man’s hand. In the four years Enjolras had worked for him, the most he ever got was a pat on the back but today, much to Enjolras’ surprise, he gets a hug so enthusiastic it lifts his feet off the ground. The hug lasts for a long minute and when they part, Lamarque leaves his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder.

    A silence falls in the office. Courfeyrac fills it quickly, joking about something that brings a deep chortle from their boss. As the sound softens, Enjolras starts to feel the entirety of the visit. It’s all suddenly overwhelming, the people and the names, the long hallways and vaguely familiar offices and the emotions tied to forgotten memories.

    His forehead and cheeks feel too warm. He tugs on his red hat, too aware of the scars to take it off but too warm to ignore it.

    “What do you think?” Lamarque asks, suddenly bending in Enjolras’s line of sight.

    Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac, who’s smiling but it’s a restrained, observant look. He’s looking for an answer, so is Lamarque, so Enjolras nods. “Okay.”

    Courfeyrac calls his name, waiting for him to look over before signing, _He wants you to go to his office._

    That’s not what he was expecting. _Why?_

    _To show you something._

    “Okay,” Enjolras says again.

    “Yeah? It won’t take too long.” Lamarque keeps his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. He nods and walks out of the office with much more confidence than he actually feels. It fades when he stands in the hall, not sure which way to turn, but he doesn’t let his shoulders fall because almost immediately Lamarque throws his arm around his shoulders. The man steers him through the halls, never stopping long enough for someone to steal Enjolras from him.

    Enjolras appreciates it. It allows him to focus on the passing walls and the names on the office doors in case he has to make his way back to Courfeyrac.

    When he walks into Lamarque’s office he’s hit with a warmth of familiarity. It’s by far the largest on the floor with a soft, worn leather couch in the middle. As he settles on one of the couches, Enjolras wonders who is working in his office now. He doesn’t think he passed it or someone mentioned it. Then again if they did, Enjolras isn’t reliable enough to remember.

    This office is beautifully decorated with dark wood furniture and massive bookshelves opposite large windows with breath-taking views. It wasn't unusual to find Enjolras working alongside Lamarque here, despite his age and lack of education much to the interns’ frustration who spent years of their lives at law school and to be quickly dismissed in favor of Enjolras. Many late nights Enjolras worked away at the small round table, many hours spent watching the blurred cars and the shifting ground beneath them pass. Enjolras sighs, sinking a little more into the couch. Lamarque pulls a chair up across from him, offers him a bottle of water, still smiling.

    _Take as long as you need_ , Lamarque signs. It's slow and sloppy. An easy smile pulls at Enjolras's face. He looks around the office again, the overwhelming heat in his cheeks fading. He knows Lamarque. It doesn’t take long to find that name.

    “You know sign?” He finds the words after two minutes and half the water is gone. He takes anther long sip to ignore how broken his voice sounds in the large office.

    "I asked Marius to teach me some,” Lamarque admits. “The kid stayed late for weeks to help me. I owe him a raise.”

    “Boss is better,” Enjolras says.

    "Really?"

    “Yeah.” Enjolras laughs. He looks down at the water bottle in his hand where he’s been tearing off the label. “Weird, huh?"

    "I wouldn't have guessed that." Lamarque sinks against the couch, still grinning at Enjolras. He waits until Enjolras looks back up at him before adding, ”I'm really happy to see you."

    "Me too. Happy to be here.”

    "How's it being home?"

    "Nice. Better than-” Enjolras loses the next word. Knitting his brow, he asks, "Word? Sick. Before home."

    "Hospital?"

    "Yes. Better than hospital. Thanks."

    Lamarque seems unfazed by the speech habits, by the strategies, by the drastic difference from the Enjolras he knew to the one sitting in front of him. The few times he was able to visit him, Lamarque spoke to his doctors and researched the subject from basic head injuries to severe aphasia. He's asked Courfeyrac for updates everyday and always added a demand to bring Enjolras by, as soon as he was ready of course. Seeing Enjolras here, being able to hug him and see his bright smile is better than anything Lamarque could have asked for. He doesn't compare the way Enjolras speaks slowly so he can search for his words to the way he used to embarrass top ivy league graduates. He compares him to the sick boy in the hospital, the kid fighting for his life and to see him winning brings happy tears to his eyes. "And Courfeyrac's treating you alright?"

    "Courf's great. Ferre, too. Everyone. Everyone's great."

    "That's good to hear. You should come by more. We miss you. I miss you around here.”

    "Busy. Everyone’s busy here," Enjolras says in a way of an excuse. There’s a better one he remembers Courfeyrac giving him but the actual words don’t come to his tongue.

    "Not too busy for you," Lamarque promises, laughing when Enjolras rolls his eyes. "What has your doctor said about work? Can you come back?"

    Enjolras drops his gaze to the floor, swallowing. He looks out the window, then back to Lamarque to see the man smiling patiently. His smile is brief as he stands up but it's enough to reassure the man that the question wasn't a sore spot. "I can't talk,” Enjolras tells him with a distracted look around the room. “Not like before."

    "You weren't very good with your words before anyway," teases Lamarque.

    The blurry cars start to make his head ache so Enjolras moves to the bookshelves. He laughs politely at Lamarque but doesn’t turn away from the familiar titles.

    "I can read," Enjolras says suddenly. "I read a lot. Loved _See Spot Run_."

    Lamarque tries to catch his face from falling in horror. A twang of pain twists in his chest until Enjolras glances over his shoulder to smirk at him. "Oh, you know what? Fuck you kid, nearly gave me sympathy pains."

    Enjolras’s laugh rings out in the office and it's a wonderful sound. "No, I read. Read the same. Most of the time."

    "What's the last book you read?”

    A long minute passes before Enjolras walks over to the coffee table and writes, _East Of Eden_. "That's a good one."

    "Liked it.”

    "Can you write?"

    Enjolras makes an unsure sign with his hand. "Some. It’s like talking, sometimes easy. Other times, not so good. Better than talking but not like reading."

    "There could be a job here for you, Enjolras. If you wanted it," Lamarque offers sincerely, aiming to make sure Enjolras understands it's not pity. Enjolras studies him, disbelieving and uncertain. He watches as Lamarque holds up a finger, then moves to his desk. From the top drawer he pulls out a flat gold rectangle and hands it to Enjolras. Enjolras flips it over, running his thumb over his engraved name. The name plaque used to hang on his office door. He must not have an office anymore. “See?” Lamarque says. “I kept it. I made damn sure I kept it. Enjolras, once your doctor says you’re physically healthy enough and if and when you want it, there is a job here for you.”

    "More than just words,” Enjolras tells him quietly.

    "What is?"

    “Damage.” His eyes stay on his name. “More damage than just words."

    "But you can read and write. I know you think that-”

    "Get confused," Enjolras interrupts. "All the time," he adds with a bitter laugh. "Confused and tired. Mood swings.”

    "I'll explain it to you and you can nap in my office.”

    “It’s hard. Harder. Different. Not the same.”

    “There’s a job here for you,” Lamarque tells anyway, slow and firmly. “If you want it, when you’re ready.”

    Lamarque says more but Enjolras doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember if he responded, he doesn’t think he did. Some time later Lamarque walks with him back to Courfeyrac’s office and it’s not much longer before Enjolras is walking out of the office with Courfeyrac at his side.  
    

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
    They’re at the Musain before he’s ready. His mind has grown cloudy with agitation and anxiety. Lamarque’s words are a blur in a much too large office full of unfamiliar faces and escaping names that he chases futilely. Courfeyrac is at his side, safe and warm and reliable. But he’s pretty sure Courfeyrac is leaving soon. Enjolras bites his bottom lip, then tugs on his red hat.

    The cafe is busy but he finds Grantaire almost immediately. Enjolras waves, barely managing a smile. Grantaire jumps up and grins. He moves so fast that his hip knocks the corner of the table and his empty coffee mug tips over. It makes Enjolras smile for real, warming his chest and pushing away the panic for a moment. When it comes back, the panic is stronger. It constricts around his lungs, tugs at his stomach, catches in his throat.

    He turns to Courfeyrac, silently begging for an explanation, an excuse, a promise it’ll all get better. But Courfeyrac is smiling at Grantaire as he walks over to them.

    “Hey, E.” Grantaire’s still grinning. His eyes are bright and excited and his hands over around Enjolras’s arm. “How was the office?”

     Enjolras shrugs. He hears the question, knows he should answer but honestly is all too tired to. He’s tired and his head hurts and his feet are cold. But this is a date. It’s a date? What made him think he could do all this today. Damn his productivity. Courfeyrac’s face comes into view and Enjolras looks up from his shoes.

    “I'm going to meet up with Jehan. I’ll see you later.”

    Either Enjolras nodded or said something because Courfeyrac grins, commands him to have fun, and leaves. He watches Courfeyrac leave, then turns to see Grantaire still smiling. It’s a restrain grin but a different kind of smile, like he’s almost shy, uncertain. Enjolras reaches out and takes his hand. He looks down at their intertwining fingers, the dried paint on Grantaire’s hand, at the short and bitten fingernails on his own.

    “What do you think?” Grantaire is asking. “Does that sound okay?”

    Looking back at him, Enjolras nods. “Okay.”

    “I just asked if you want to buy a few monkeys and maybe a bear. Yeah? ”

    “Yeah,” Enjolras repeats. He nods his head a couple of times, then looks out the window.

    “Okay, great. Let me get my stuff.” Grantaire squeezes his hand before letting go. Enjolras watches him carefully until someone bumps into his shoulder. He steps back but finds himself standing in front of the door where people rush in quickly to get out of the cold, so he moves again, finding himself pressed against the window. Enjolras drops his head, staring at his feet and tugs on his hat.

    He doesn’t like how lost, helpless, scared he feels in a place that used to be so familiar. Useless. He’s so fucking useless. He can spend five years working somewhere and in one short fall he forgets where his office was, the warm inviting coffee shop is now overwhelmingly busy, far too small for how many people are in line. Ten feet. One fall. How many seconds did it take for his life to fall apart?

    A hand finds his. Paint-stained and calloused against his own trembling and cold. Grantaire smiles softly at him. He jerks his head towards the door and Enjolras gladly follows. Their fingers stay intertwined. Enjolras is grateful for it. It lets him keep his head low, slightly protected against the biter wind, and steers him gently away from bumping into other people on the sidewalk.

    He does, however, miss where they’re going and when he looks up to see his own apartment building he frowns. Their inside on the elevator when he turns to Grantaire. “Why?”

    Grantaire finally lets go of his hand to sign, _I thought we could do dinner and a movie. Maybe order a pizza and watch something on Netflix._

    _Dinner and a movie?_

    _Yeah._ Grantaire rubs the back of his neck. “Is that okay?”

    “Okay.” Enjolras nods, smiling. “I- this- it’s a date?”

    “Yeah. I’d like it to be.”

    Enjolras bites his bottom lip against the painfully big grin. He leans forward, in a rush of productivity, and kisses Grantaire. His doubt fades the moment Grantaire presses back. When Enjolras steps back, he laughs breathlessly. “Okay,” he says. He grabs Grantaire’s hand and opens the door to his apartment. “Okay. This is good. A good date.”

    Grantaire follows inside him with a loud, agreeable laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always you can find me at: 
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr!
> 
> the-tigers-come-at-night.tumblr.com
> 
> I'd love to chat and hear any prompts! Like seriously. Just come say hi or yell at me to update sooner.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments and kudos, they make my day!


End file.
